


jagged little pill

by alanabloom, morethanwine



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art, F/F, Friends to Lovers, New York City, Slow Burn, and they were ROOMMATES, begrudging romanticization of new york city fire escapes, dance, enthused romanticization of cassette tapes, mom issues all around!, sorry to use the word 'lovers'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 138,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24659425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanabloom/pseuds/alanabloom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morethanwine/pseuds/morethanwine
Summary: "OfcourseJen gets stuck with a fucking art major."new york city, 1995
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 167
Kudos: 371





	1. you've already won me over (in spite of me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly thought I was done with fic, firmly retired, but then the combination of quarantine and Dead To Me season two happened and I surrendered my entire life to Jen and Judy. Also I am blessedly quarantined with my roommate (morethanwine), a genius who, over some pot gummies and a game of gin rummy, suggested an art school college roommate AU set in the 90's, knowing that is very much My Shit. We've written a couple scripts/exhaustive AUs of our own OCs together, and we're collaborating pretty heavily on this, too.
> 
> Planning on two chapters for each school year, fairly lengthy ones, plus an epilogue. Stealing a trick from the ridiculous but helpful 1998 WB series "Felicity" with the nonexistent University of New York (UNY), a clear analogue for NYU except it keeps me from having to be exhaustively accurate about their campus layout/dance and art programs/etc.

_July 22, 1995_

_Hi Jennifer!_

_I’m Judy Hale — your future roommate! I still can’t believe it’s happening so soon! COLLEGE in NEW YORK CITY! I know it’s probably not as exciting for you since you’re a real New Yorker already. I saw your address and felt like I won the lottery! What’s Brooklyn like? Is it full of tough guys? Does it snow as much as the movies make it seem? I’m so excited for snow. I’ve never even touched it! I think it’s so cool that you chose to live in a dorm and still do the normal college thing even though you’re close to home. I wish the information packet told me more about you. I have so many questions! I’m sure you do, too, so here’s a little about me:_

_I’m from Long Beach mainly. My mom and I hopped around a lot (no siblings), but we were never too far from the beach. I’ve never even been outside of California. I’m majoring in Studio Art. I paint, but I’m open to other mediums. Pottery seems very soothing, don’t you think? I’m a Pisces. When’s your birthday? I’m vegetarian (I cheat sometimes). I’m not allergic to anything, so bring any food you want into the dorm. The packet says we should coordinate who can bring what for our room. I’m really sorry that I can’t bring a mini fridge or beanbag chair or anything since I’m flying in, but I promise to chip in on anything we buy. I don’t have much stuff, but feel free to borrow anything. What’s mine is ours!_

_I guess I’ll end this letter here, so there’s still some fun stuff to learn when we meet. I seriously can’t wait. I know you’re going to be the best roommate ever. I can sense it._

_See you soon! — Judy_

_P.S. I hope you like the anklet! I used my own ankle to measure it, so if it doesn’t fit, I can totally make a new one._

+

Of _course_ Jen gets stuck with a fucking art major.

Over the summer, she had finally come to a grudging, clenched teeth acceptance of the fact that she’d be going to UNY — her second choice, but trailing at a significant distance. 

There aren’t any art students at Juilliard. 

It’s not like there wouldn’t have been less than ideal roommates there, too. Nine out of ten theater majors are basically guaranteed headaches. Most music students are probably okay, if a little on the dull side, but Jen probably couldn’t scrounge up the requisite respect if they were, like, a bassoon major or something — imagine, four years of college dedicated solely to a _bassoon_.

Still. Better than an art major...from _California_. Of fuckin’ course. 

Her Juilliard audition was back in March, and still the memory stings every time Jen touches it. Her dance instructor’s reaction was almost worse than the actual rejection (which is saying a lot — Jen broke a knuckle on a parking meter after the audition). Ms. Bryant has been warning Jen to be “realistic” about Juilliard for the last two years. Both UNY and Juillard’s dance programs require equal study in ballet and contemporary, but Juilliard is less forgiving of students who aren’t equally skilled at both. 

It’s a bullshit system. Jen’s good at ballet — actually, no, she’s fucking _great_ at ballet. She just isn’t the best. Which should be fine, because she isn’t trying to be. 

Anyway. Ms. Bryant’s been teaching Jen for almost six years; ever since she got moved up to advanced classes when she was only a seventh grader. She was the youngest dancer at that level by three years; Ms. Bryant was the one who fought for it, and now Jen’s probably going to hate her forever. All because, when she heard Jen got cut during the Juilliard audition, she didn’t even bother feigning surprise, just gave Jen this smug fucking pat on the shoulder that might as well have been an _I told you so_.

_You’ll do well at UNY, Jennifer. I think their program is better suited to your talents._

In other words: that inferior program is better suited to your inferior talents. Which, you know. Fuck _that_. 

So even though it’s not actually Judy Hale’s fault, her letter is an unwelcome reminder that Jen is going to an _inferior_ art school, where the performance studies are lumped in with wannabe filmmakers and poets and goddamn vegetarian painters from California.

Obviously, Jen doesn’t write back. 

She also doesn’t wear the fucking anklet, which looks like a (well made, admittedly) glorified friendship bracelet of multicolored pastel threads intricately braided with no discernible pattern. 

She _does_ get a mini fridge and a phone and a microwave for their dorm room, and if Judy Hale wants to pay her for half, Jen isn’t going to stop her — though _chip in_ makes her sound kind of fucking cheap. 

Classes start Monday, the second week in August, and the dormitories open the Friday before, but Jen’s dad doesn’t drive her over until late Sunday afternoon. She’s hoping the late arrival means she’s missed some kind of Welcome/Get To Know You/Kumbaya freshmen gathering.

Jen’s room is on the seventh floor of Franklin Hall; there are whiteboards hanging on every door in the hallway, two girls names written on each one in the same handwriting, probably the RA’s. When Jen gets to room 709, with “Jennifer & Judy” scrawled on the board, she shifts the bags in her hand to smear _nifer_ off with her fingers. 

That done, she gets the key in the door and shoulders it open, relieved to see the room is currently empty even though Judy Hale has clearly moved in already, her stuff occupying the right half of the room. 

With her dad’s help, it only takes two trips to get everything up to the room — not bad, considering she has a whole rolling suitcase just for shoes (pointe, jazz, tap, character, high top Chuck Taylors with a Sharpie scribble on the inside of the tongue covering up the initials of her ninth grade boyfriend). Three minutes later, her dad is heading back to Brooklyn with mercifully little fanfare. Jen’s moving barely forty minutes from her childhood home, but still her mom would have made a bigger deal if she’d felt up to coming. 

Left alone, Jen gives the other side of the room a cursory survey before she starts unpacking her stuff. She’d been bracing herself for a room papered in shitty teenage art, but the only thing on the walls so far is a deep red and gold tapestry, hanging over the other bed. Art probably doesn’t travel well, but that doesn’t mean it’s not coming. And though Jen fervently hopes that Judy Hale has a passionate side interest in geology that could explain the crystals lining the perimeter of her desk, they’re probably what Californians use to commune with fucking stardust or whatever. 

It takes Jen all of fifteen minutes to get sheets on the bed and transfer her clothes from suitcases to the closet and standard issue dresser on her side of the room. She sets her stereo on her desk and puts the minifridge under the window, phone on top of it; that’s the extent of Jen’s contribution to room decor.

That done, Jen swaps her cut offs for a pair of athletic shorts, grabs her Walkman, clamps her headphones on, and heads out of the dorm. She took the train here a few times over the summer just to wander around — part of the whole _making her peace with UNY_ thing — so she’s got the campus pretty much figured out. She doesn't get her access code for the dance studio rehearsal spaces until class tomorrow, but she spent the morning at home doing basically all of her packing, skipping her usual conditioning routine, so she heads to the undergrad gym for some cardio. There are less than a dozen students spending their last free evening working out, so Jen has a mirrored aerobics room to herself to stretch before spending forty-five minutes on a stationary bike.

The sun’s setting when Jen heads back to the dorm. She suspected earlier, but her third trip to the seventh floor confirms it: Franklin Hall is the proud site of the world’s slowest elevator. So that’s fantastic.

Jen gets her key in the door to room 709 and finds it’s already unlocked. She rolls her eyes and braces herself before stepping into the room and inhaling something thick and floral. 

“Oh my god, hi! You’re here!” 

Jen reluctantly pulls her headphones down, leaving them looped around her neck. “Hey.”

Judy Hale is grinning at her, kind of blindingly, and it takes Jen a second to register that Judy’s standing in front of _her_ desk, on _her_ side of the room, apparently looking through the carton of cassette tapes Jen left there. 

Judy seems unperturbed that she’s been caught snooping. “It’s so great to finally meet you.” 

She comes at Jen, arms half extended like she’s going to hug her. Alarmed, Jen steps back, colliding with the door and muttering, “Yeah, no, I’m all sweaty.” 

“Oh.” In compromise, Judy holds out her hand to shake, which strikes Jen as oddly formal, but whatever. 

She grasps it for a second, hoping her smile doesn’t tilt too far toward mocking. “Nice to meet you.” 

“You, too. _Jen_.” She says Jen’s name like she’s proud of knowing it, her smile actually, somehow, broadening as she explains, “I saw you fixed the whiteboard.” 

“Oh. Right.” Because Judy seems content to stand face to face in the doorway, Jen finally sidles past her. “What am I smelling?” 

“Quiet Flowers, isn’t it soothing?”

“What?” 

“The incense.” Judy gestures to her desk, where thin wisps of smoke are rising off an incense stick. 

Of course. Fucking California. 

Jen makes a face. “Did you say _Quiet Flowers_? What other fucking kind of flowers are there?” 

“You don’t like it? I’ve got a bunch of scents….” 

Judy passes her a box with a list of equally ridiculous names: Scarlet Waltz, Autumnal Twilight, Drops of Whisper, and --

“ _Mother’s Chest_?” Jen reads. She gives Judy an incredulous look. “Whose mom’s tits does this smell like?” 

“Unclear, but she’s a real amber citrus kinda lady.”

The response surprises a half laugh out of Jen. Her music is still playing, soft and tinny, from her headphones, and Judy suddenly lowers her head and leans close like she’s trying to hear Jen’s heartbeat. “Ooh, The Cranberries. _Love_ this song.” 

Well, yeah. It’s a great fucking song.

“Workout mix.” Jen presses Stop and tosses the Walkman on her bed. 

“Wow. You’re hardcore.” 

“Dance major.”

“Really? That’s amazing!” 

Jen throws a slanted look at Judy, checks if she’s mocking her. Jen probably deserves some mocking — she at least _knows_ she sounds snobby, all crisp and businesslike. But Judy appears to be completely earnest, like she really does think dance is _amazing_.

“I’m doing studio art. Focus on painting, hopefully. Wait, sorry, you know that. Or...do you? Did you get my letter?” 

“Yeah, I did.” Then, a beat too late and probably halfhearted, Jen adds, “Sorry. Not big on writing letters.” 

“Oh, it’s totally fine. Really, don’t worry about it, I just don’t want to talk too much about stuff you already know. Or, um...talk too much in general.” Judy’s smile falters slightly, for the first time since Jen walked in.

“Hey, uh, you had dinner yet?” Jen asks without really thinking about it. “I was just gonna go to the dining hall.” 

“Sure!” Judy smiles, full wattage again. “Let’s do it.” 

They clearly have to have the _get to know you_ talk regardless; might as well multi-task, do it over dinner instead of just sitting in the room, staring at each other. 

Franklin Hall has its own dining hall, down on the second floor. A lot of the doors on their floor are propped open, students milling around like a meet and greet. Judy says hello to half a dozen people, by name, before they even get to the elevator. It’s like she’s lived here for two years instead of two days. She throws around more chipper _hey’_ s when they get to the dining hall, these to apparent strangers. Anyone who glances at her, hopefully seeking eye contact, receives a greeting and a smile. 

It makes Jen suddenly conscious of how she must look — work out clothes, hair stiff and greasy from dried sweat. A fucking mess, basically. 

Judy Hale is kind of beautiful, if Jen’s being honest, but in an annoying, California flower child way. Her dark hair nearly reaches her waist, and she’s wearing a long, floral print skirt with a white tank top. And the jewelry — too many colorful bracelets, too many dainty rings.

They split and head to different food stations before reconvening at one of the small tables that line the dining hall’s perimeter. Judy immediately starts peppering Jen with questions about New York. Turns out she spent most of the day on Ellis Island, and is talking through every step of her Statue of Liberty tour, with little commentary from Jen, before cutting herself off mid sentence. 

“Sorry, obviously you know all this stuff...you’ve probably gone there a bunch.” 

“Never on purpose,” Jen says flatly.

Judy purses her lips in confusion, apparently trying to work out how one might accidentally stumble upon the Statue of Liberty. 

Jen rolls her eyes but explains, “Couple of elementary school field trips.”

“Oh! That makes sense. That must’ve been cool, though, as a kid. We almost never did field trips, and if we did it was to an aquarium or city hall or something.” 

Jen nods an obligatory acknowledgement. 

“I’ve got a whole list of places to see...I did Central Park yesterday. It’s gorgeous there. I was thinking about trying to fit in Times Square last night, but I’m kinda nervous about that one.” 

“You fucking _should_ be,” Jen informs her grimly. “It’s the worst place on earth.” 

Judy’s eyebrows arch. “Is that an officially recognized distinction?” 

“Yep. There’s a plaque there and everything. _Times Square: the armpit of Manhattan._ ”

That makes Judy laugh. “So I take it you never go there on purpose?” 

“God, no. Well. Only for the discount ticket booth.” 

“What’s that?” 

So Jen explains the TKTS ticket booths, selling discount tickets to Broadway shows that haven’t sold out by the day of the shows. Judy gets that shiny eyed out of towner look at the word _Broadway_ , then asks Jen what shows she’s seen. It’s a topic Jen actually gives a shit about, and the rest of dinner passes with Jen listing the shows she’s seen and her staunch opinions on each one. 

It’s kind of nice, actually. Because she made it a point not to befriend hardcore drama club kids, most of Jen’s high school friends are years past any interest in Broadway, dismissing it as something that should only appeal to tourists and children. But the shine never went off for Jen, and Judy doesn’t know enough for her to be embarrassed about that. 

“Is that what you want to do?” Judy asks when the topic finally starts winding down; they’re on the elevator, heading back up to the seventh floor. “Dance in a Broadway show?” 

“Maybe. I mean, yeah.” The elevator doors slide open. “But not all musicals are big dance shows, so you never know what the demand’s gonna be. It’s not like it’s that or nothing, I’d be fine getting into a dance company, or—“ 

Jen stops talking abruptly, because they’ve reached their room and Judy’s got her keys out to unlock the door and — _fucking hell_ — they are dangling from a shiny Statue of Liberty keychain.

The door swings open, and Judy glances back at Jen as she walks inside. “Or?” 

“Nothing.” The train of thought has fully derailed; Jen’s too preoccupied with the keychain. She reaches over and plucks it easily from Judy’s hand. “You get this today?” 

“Yeah, there was a gift shop. Isn’t it cute?” 

With saintly restraint, Jen manages not to roll her eyes. “Uh-huh. You should know, though, it makes you look like a tourist.” 

Judy sits down on her bed without trying to take the keys back. She looks up at Jen, her head tilted and her smile slightly confused. “Well, I _am_ a tourist, right?” 

“Uh, no. Not really.” Jen puts the keys down on Judy’s desk. There’s an Ellis Island postcard there she hadn’t noticed before. “Don’t you pretty much live here now?”

Judy seems to take a moment to think about that, and this time when she smiles, it’s slow and smaller than usual. “Yeah.... _yeah_. You’re right. I live here now.” 

She gets up and walks to her desk, pulls the keychain free with a bizarre conviction before grinning at Jen proudly. It's like she expects applause, but Jen can only muster a returning smile.

“Maybe I’ll send it to my mom,” Judy muses. “She’s never been to New York, either. She kept telling me how jealous she is, how great it’s gonna be...she’s gonna visit next semester. Hopefully. If she can.” 

“Great.” Jen’s voice is flat, skating along the edge of sarcasm. Who _wants_ their parents to visit? “I’m gonna go shower.” 

The communal bathroom, shared by all the girls on their floor, makes Jen feel like she’s in prison. She showers fast, standing there in flip flops behind the gross plastic curtain, at least two other showers going at the same time and an inane conversation about sororities echoing from somewhere near the sinks. 

When Jen gets back to the room, hair wet and dripping on the old recital shirt she sleeps in, Judy smiles at her and says, “Hi!” like she hasn’t been gone all of ten minutes. Judy’s sitting on her bed writing in a notebook that Jen can only assume is a journal — Judy seems like she journals. 

She shuts the notebook with the pen inside. “Have you seen the basement lounge yet? It’s pretty great, there’s a big TV, couches, all these games...do you play ping pong? A kind of tournament thing broke out last night. I'm totallyawful, but it was still fun.”

Jen’s sitting on the edge of her bed brushing her hair out, so she has to lift her eyebrows in lieu of a nod.

When that’s her only reply, Judy continues, “Wanna go check it out, maybe? There’s also a full kitchen down there, which could be kinda nice to have — “

“Not tonight,” Jen cuts her off. “Need to make sure I’m focused for tomorrow.”

“Oh. Sure, okay.” Judy smiles at her, but Jen catches her glancing at the alarm clock sitting on her dresser. Barely after nine. 

“Here’s the thing. I don’t know if you know much about the dance program here— “

“No, nothing,” Judy says, with the tone of someone who can’t _wait_ to change that. She actually leans forward, giving Jen her undivided attention. 

“...okay, well, it’s fucking _intense_ . We start at seven a.m. every day, and that’s just _mat-work_. Then ballet and contemporary. Back to back. Hour and a half each. That’s _every_ fucking day, none of this Monday Wednesday Friday block schedule shit.” 

“Wow.” Judy appears to be genuinely impressed, and Jen feels herself warming to her own speech.

“ _Yeah_. Academic classes all have to be squeezed in, like, a couple hours in the middle of the day. Then in the afternoons we have either Music Theory or Kinesthetics with the department, and sometimes other workshops...and eventually there will be rehearsals a lot of weeknights on top of everything else.”

“That _is_ intense,” Judy agrees solemnly. “I mean...my earliest class doesn’t even start until ten.” 

Jen gives a little _I figured as much_ nod, content in her established superiority, but then Judy smiles warmly and says, “You must really love it, huh?” 

Jen blinks at her, thrown off. In the heartbeat before Judy finished her sentence, Jen was already filling in the blanks, assuming she was about to remark on her presumed skill. _You must really be talented, huh?_ Something along those lines. 

_Obviously_ Jen loves it. But that isn’t the point — it kind of hasn’t been the point in a long time. Jen loves it, and that’s why she wants to do it for as long as she possibly can, wants it to be her _career_. But auditions aren’t decided on who _loves_ dancing the most — not at the modest youth dance studio in Brooklyn, and not at Radio City Music Hall or The Majestic Theater or fucking Juilliard. 

“Of _course_ I love it,” Jen finally answers, her tone unnecessarily prickly. “That’s the whole reason I’m here.” She exhales sharp and attempts to steer the conversation back on track. “Anyway, that’s kind of my point. I take this program really fucking seriously. I’m planning to be a featured soloist by next year’s recitals.” Freshmen _never_ get principal roles or soloist spots outside of the dinky little showcases. Sophomores do, but only on rare occasions. “And I’m not gonna make that happen by staying up half the night getting wasted or hooking up with some idiot frat guy or, like, braiding each other’s hair or whatever. You do whatever you want, but if it’s after ten pm, you need to do it somewhere that isn’t this room.” 

“I completely get that,” Judy says with a serious, focused nod. “You don’t have to worry.” 

Jen frowns. She had anticipated some push back, or at least visible resentment, so the easy acquiescence throws her off. Jen tends to assume conversations will turn into arguments; she often has the fight in her head first, getting herself defensive and angry about shit that hasn’t even happened yet. In this case, she’d gotten prematurely pissed off at Judy Hale’s imaginary insistences on well lit, two am painting sessions or weeknight dorm room keggers. 

She was probably a little harsh. Ten o'clock is overdoing it, Jen knew that when she said it; even back home, when she had to wake up before six am in order to get an hour of barre exercises in before showering and going to school, Jen was never actually in bed by _ten_. 

“Obviously, weekends are different,” she adds a bit grudgingly. “I still rehearse, but it doesn’t have to be such an early start, so, you know. Go crazy.” 

“Got it.” Judy smiles at her, perfectly cheerful. “So there are recitals every year? Can anyone go? I want to see you dance!” 

Jen’s never given much credence to the stereotype that New Yorkers are ruder and less considerate people than the general population, but _fuck_ , maybe there’s something to it. 

Whatever. A randomly assigned art major roommate was bound to have at least one strange personality quirk; it could have been a lot worse than inhuman — possibly sociopathic — niceness. 

+

The University of New York’s dance program is not designed to gently ease its students into college life, and Jen is all for it. 

Throughout high school, she had classes or rehearsals with Ms. Bryant for two hours, every day after school, but other than that, Jen had to rely on her own self discipline to make productive use of her time. Besides the hour in the morning, she’d put in at least two before bed; her father had installed a barre and a wall mirror in their unfinished basement, the only thing she’d wanted for her twelfth birthday. When Jen was younger, she’d skip lunch sometimes to sneak into the school gym, but during her junior and senior year she managed to turn study hall periods into sanctioned rehearsal time. 

Her mom has always been really fucking annoying about it, constantly chiding Jen for working “too hard” and making sarcastic “jokes” about how rarely she emerged from the basement. But here she is, at an elite program, each day rigorous and heavily scheduled, proof that her work paid off, that she'd had the right idea all along. Jen prepared herself well. Only thirty-two dancers were accepted this year; they all must be talented, but by the second week of classes, she can already pick out the ones who seem overwhelmed. Those are the students that will never get a principal role or a featured solo, and Jen is confident she isn’t among them.

It only takes a few weeks of classes for the daily routines to feel lived in and instinctual. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are the worst; she only has a forty-five minute break in the middle of the day, right after contemporary dance, and Jen spends it having lunch at the dining hall closest to the studio, sitting with a group of her fellow freshman dancers. Then she has to rush two blocks to a Humanities building— the liberal arts, gen ed requirements are minimal for dance majors, but they do exist. Jen plans to take one each semester through junior year, and this year it’s English Lit, a numbingly boring hour sandwiched between lunch and Music Theory.

The city is still sticky and sweltering as August gives way to September, sunlight drenched in humidity, and Jen gets in the habit of changing out of tights after dance, leaving the studio in only her skirted leotard and flimsy sandals. The other girls she sits with at lunch follow her lead (Jen’s kind of smug about that), and their table attracts its fair share of appreciative glances. There are even some walk by flirtations, offered alongside casual invites to various parties. Once Jen’s actually in class, she usually shrugs on an unbuttoned flannel, but she likes to sit sideways in her chair, bare legs stretched out into the aisle. 

No fucking dress code in college. 

She passes Judy on campus once, on her way to Music Theory; Judy’s sitting on the lip of the fountain in Washington Square Park, the closest thing the school has to a quad. She’s with a tattooed and pierced crowd — the kind of artsy clique that would probably make you fail a drug test just by walking past them — but Judy calls Jen’s name and comes trotting over to say hi. 

“I thought today was your Lit class day?” 

Gesturing vaguely in the direction of the Humanities building, Jen says, “Just came from there.”

Judy’s eyes flare. “You go to _class_ like that?” She grins, making a show of checking Jen out. “Trying to distract everyone and screw up the exam curve?” 

Jen rolls her eyes, but she’s smug and smirking. “I gotta go, running late for Music Theory.” 

“Okay, see ya tonight. Have fun!” 

“Oh, sure, it’ll be a fucking blast.” 

Jen glances back over her shoulder before she gets fully out of earshot, watching Judy rejoin the weed fog of art majors. It’s possible she’s stereotyping and they aren’t art majors at all; Judy only has one actual studio class this semester, plus an Art History lecture. It is (as Jen expected) a less intense program that requires a lot more gen eds. 

Which maybe explains why Judy seems to have made, conservatively, fiftysomething new friends in the first two weeks of school. Jen doesn’t see her on campus often — her own classes being largely contained to one building — but when she does, Judy is always with a different group. She never seems to say the same name twice, when she’s telling Jen about meeting up with people for dining hall lunches or lame events on campus or random parties. Judy usually adds a cursory offer for Jen to join in on these adventures, but she’d rather dance a _pas de deux_ with Hulk Hogan than attend a Darwinism themed poetry slam in the student union or drink cheap beer in a shitty loft that’s probably home to no less than fifteen art students and one hundred rats. 

She and Judy do get dinner together a few times a week, on the nights they’re both back at the dorm and hungry at the same time. Judy appears to know everyone who lives in their dorm (like, all thirteen fucking floors of it), but to Jen’s immense relief, she never invites any of her treasured neighbors/friends/admirers to join their table. Jen doesn’t want to have to start saying _hi how are you_ to a dozen people every time she walks to the hall bathroom.

She actually, shockingly, likes talking to Judy, though. It’s kind of nice to have an outside audience for her snark and/or derision toward fellow students and teachers in the dance program. When Jen isn’t making fun of Madame Lowry’s fake Russian affectation or the way Kaitlin Davis actually _decorated_ her dressing room locker so everyone would just happen to see the photo of her dancing as Giselle, they mostly talk about New York. Judy is still working through her list of Manhattan tourist traps, and she likes to consult Jen anytime she ventures to a new part of the city.

Not that it helps. The second full weekend of the semester, Judy comes back from a Sunday afternoon trip to The Met gushing about the “inspiring” old woman who apparently blessed Judy with her entire life story in the twenty minute train ride….meaning Jen is treated to the cliffnotes version. 

“...then she said she learned palm reading from a Romani woman she met in the late sixties, traveling through Croatia. And _then_ , when she was living in Vienna, which I think she said was in 1972...1975? No, it was ‘72, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, so in Vienna, that was the main way she earned money, reading palms by the river. She gave me a reading. I didn’t even have to ask, Jen, she just took my hand and told me to close my eyes. I swear, I could feel this ancient, calming vibe coming off of her, right away. She said the place where my love line and fate line intersect is actually really interesting— "

“Hold on,” Jen, who has so far limited her response to noncommittal humming, cuts her off. “Back up. She told you to _close_ your eyes?” 

“Yes.”

“How does that affect what the skin on your hands looks like?” 

“Hmm. I guess it doesn’t,” Judy says thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was trying to pick up on my energy to enhance the reading. She was very in tune with that kind of thing...sometimes you can just tell with people, you know?”

“Uh-huh. And have you checked your pockets?” 

“This dress doesn’t have pockets.” Judy turns sideways as if to prove it. 

Exhaling an exasperated sigh, Jen finally commits to closing her Kinesthetics of Anatomy textbook and giving Judy her full attention. “Your _purse_ , then, Judy. Have you checked your purse since you and your new friend parted ways?” 

“No…” Judy reaches for her bag, which she’d draped over the desk chair when she walked in. It’s this oversized canvas thing that looks like her wall tapestry in a different color scheme (Judy, it seems, is allergic to solid colors), and it takes her a few moments to rummage through it and say, in apparent surprise, “Hey, I think my wallet’s gone.” 

Jen nods sagely. “Thought so.” 

“Shit.” Judy hangs her purse back on the chair and for a moment she just stands there, looking forlorn. 

Jen sighs again; _she_ didn’t steal Judy’s wallet, but she still feels bad about breaking the news. She suspects Judy is less upset about the loss of her wallet than the fact that her inspiring conversation with a stranger was just a pretense for theft. Turns out it’s not fun to witness the precise moment someone’s faith in humanity crumbles. Especially someone like Judy. 

“C’mon.” Tossing her textbook aside, Jen gets up from her bed and drapes a consoling arm around Judy’s shoulder. It’s not a typical gesture for Jen, but Judy is casual with physical affection, and in only two weeks Jen’s found herself mirroring the habits. “Let’s go get food. I can swipe you in at the dining hall until you get a replacement card.” 

Judy’s eyes perk up the slightest bit at the offer. “Okay. Thanks, Jen.” 

Over dinner, Jen proceeds to give Judy a blunt version of the ‘safety in the city’ talk her mom and dad gave her when she was eleven years old. Her parents hadn’t felt the need to warn her against closing her eyes at a stranger’s request, but Jen makes sure to hammer home that particular rule. 

When she’s done all she can to be reasonably certain Judy can go on a daytime outing without being mugged, Jen asks her how the museum was. Charitably, she lets Judy describe paintings and sculptures for the next half hour, even feigning interest to the point of asking questions about them. Judy’s lucky she’s sad. 

+

It’s a Thursday night, and Jen’s taking up the dorm’s pathetically limited floor space by stretching out on her yoga mat, a tennis ball wedged between her extended left leg and the floor, rolling some of the soreness out of her calf muscles. 

Jen doesn’t miss much about being home in Brooklyn, but she _really_ fucking misses her bathtub. She used to have a whole hot/cold muscle routine; icing right after dance class, a preventative measure to hold off inflammation, and a warm bath every night. Now, both routines have been interrupted; there’s no time to ice after class if she wants to actually eat lunch, and the prison dorm hall bathrooms obviously don’t have a tub (not that Jen would use it if they did; there’s a reason everyone wears flip flops in the shower — a communal bath would require a full fucking scuba suit). 

She makes do, still icing after evening workouts and using heat packs at night, but she’s also dancing at least two more hours a day than she ever was in high school, sometimes more. As the third week of classes comes to a close, her body is definitely feeling the effects.

Judy’s sitting on her bed with her knees drawn up and a sketch pad resting against her thighs. When she first pulled it out, Jen had this flash of paranoia that Judy might be drawing her — she's already overly aware of how weird the tennis ball routine looks, especially crammed in a three foot space between their twin beds. But apparently Judy's working on something for class. Jen’s got her headphones on, music a habitual necessity for any solo workouts or cool downs, and so it takes a few moments for her to notice Judy leaning sideways into her eye line, waving a hand to get Jen’s attention. 

Jen tugs the headphones off so they hook around her neck. “What?” 

“Hi.” Jen rolls her eyes at the greeting; she’s had her headphones on for five minutes, it’s not like she just returned from a quest. Judy doesn’t seem to notice, just continues, “I was just going to say, if you want to play your music on the stereo, you totally can. It doesn’t bother me.” 

“That’s okay,” Jen says dismissively. “The cord’s not in my way or anything.” 

She’s already setting the headphones back in place, but then she catches the way Judy’s face falls like she’s disappointed. 

“Well, actually, if you’re sure you don’t mind…” Jen pops the tape out of her Walkman and stands up, walking over to her desk — providing a surface for her stereo and music collection is still its only function so far. 

A few seconds later, Ani DiFranco is crooning through the stereo speakers. Judy smiles in instant recognition, and Jen turns the volume up a few notches and resumes her position on the mat. 

Judy’s singing along with the song by the time Jen switches legs — “ _still there’s many who’ve turned out their porch lights..._ ” — but she’s being quiet about it, not overwhelming the actual cassette, and it’s not like her voice is bad. Jen doesn’t really mind.

When Jen finishes up her muscle rolling routine and is about to go shower, she starts to turn off the stereo but changes her mind, deciding to let the tape finish. 

“Hey, Judy?” 

She looks up from her sketchbook and gives Jen an expectant smile.

“Just so you know, it’s cool if you use the stereo whenever you want. Like, when I’m not here.”

It’s possible she already has been, but Jen wants to make sure; it hadn’t come up alongside those early, _feel free to use the fridge_ and _I brought the phone so maybe you can buy an answering machine_ conversations.

“Aw, thanks. That’s really nice of you.” 

“And the tapes, too. If there’s any you want to borrow...it’s not like they can never leave this room.” 

Judy looks confused for a second, then says, “Oh, that’s okay, I don’t have a Walkman.” 

“Really?” Jen makes a face, appalled at the prospect. 

She can’t contemplate a city life without music. Even in junior high, when her parents first started letting her ride the subway and walk further than their neighborhood by herself, the best part was the music. She wasn’t supposed to have headphones on, that first year — her mom thought it would make her less aware of her surroundings — but she snuck her Walkman out anyway. Her carefully crafted, preteen mixtapes became the soundtrack of her freedom, of the illicit thrill of breaking a rule.

Now, Jen can’t stand to take a subway ride without headphones on. She pulls them out even for her shortest walks on campus. In the mornings, especially, the music is a crucial part of her routine, waking her up and carrying her to the studio.

Judy, though, just shrugs, still smiling. “Nope. Thanks, though.” 

Must be different in California, where they just fucking _drive_ everywhere. And as far as Jen can tell, Judy’s never walking alone on campus anyway; she does take the train alone sometimes, but given recent events, it’s probably best not to split Judy’s focus.

Still. When Jen’s in the shower, she remembers the ancient Walkman that’s spent the last several years residing in the bottom drawer of her dresser back home, on top of three or four spare, tangled sets of headphones. 

Jen’s already got a mental list of Things She Should Have Packed. Nothing she urgently needs, but enough to justify the short trip home, even if the Walkman hadn’t been added to the list. Jen could go this Saturday...she could stay for lunch, catch her parents up on her first few weeks, go into more detail than the five minute phone calls. 

Or she can wait and go on Monday. If she skips English Lit and leaves right after Contemporary, she could get to the house while her father’s at work and her mother’s at the hospital for chemo. She could grab her stuff and be out of the house without anyone knowing she was there, back on campus by Music Theory. 

Jen waits until Monday. 

+

She’s casual about offering the Walkman to Judy — “Oh, hey, do you want this? I went to my hou— my parent’s house to get some stuff I left and I found it in my closet. It weighs a metric fuck ton and I think my dad bought in like 1986 but it works.” — but Judy still hugs her when she says thank you. She really is just _like that_.

A care package from Jen’s parents arrives at the dorm later that week. Or at least, that’s when Judy notices the box sitting in the mail room has her name on it and brings it upstairs to their room. Jen wouldn’t have thought to check the packages. She barely bothers to check the mail.

It puts a guilty knot in Jen’s chest, tightening and tightening as she picks through the contents of the box, finding nail polish and protein bars and multiple packages of bobby pins. 

Judy’s sitting on her bed, watching her. She’s being weirdly quiet. Jen looks up a few times, catches her eye, and even Judy’s automatic smile is tense.

“Everything okay?” Jen finally asks. 

“Yeah. Well. I do need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay…?”

“I got a job.” 

Jen waits, expecting further explanation on how this concerns her. When Judy doesn’t say anything else, she says, “Uh. Congratulations?” 

“Thanks! Yeah, um, I was doing work study hours in the library, but that’s barely anything so I’ve been looking...do you know Portofino? Italian place over on Seventh?”

“I think I’ve passed it, yeah...you waitressing?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool...maybe you can steal us some wine.” 

Judy smiles, but it fades quickly. “The thing is, I pretty much had to take whatever shifts they offered. And at least for now, on Mondays and Wednesdays, I’m going to be working kinda late......like, until after midnight.” 

Judy says all this information in the halting, dread pinched tone of someone delivering very bad news. Jen’s clearly missing something. “Uhhh...okay?”

“I just. I know it’ll mean getting back here way after ten on weeknights— ”

 _Oh_. 

“—but I was thinking about it, and maybe it would help if you got some earplugs to sleep with, that way I won’t wake you up when I get home.” 

“Judy— “

“I know, if you have in earplugs how are you going to hear your alarm? Well, _I_ can set an alarm for whenever you normally would, and then I can wake you up. That way you get a full night’s sleep and you’re still up in time. Do you...do you think that could work?” 

Judy looks at her, big eyed and anxious. That knot in Jen’s chest is tightening again. 

“Jesus, Judy, I didn’t mean...I never said _you_ have to be in the room and in bed by ten.”

“But if I’m coming in and changing clothes and everything that late— “

“Look, if I wake up, I’ll go right back to sleep. It’s not the end of the world.” Judy still looks doubtful. “I’m _serious_. I was trying to head off, like...dorm room beer pong tournaments or loud, late night hookups. Not you quietly closing a door and changing clothes.” Jen holds Judy’s eyes, her tone softening, “I didn’t mean to give you a fucking curfew, okay?” 

“Okay. Good.” Judy exhales heavily, her whole body visibly loosening in relief. 

God. Jen must have come across like a fucking tyrant with her speech that first day. She kind of feels like apologizing. 

Instead, she pulls a box of Entenmann’s cookies out of her package and holds it out across the gap between their beds. “You want a cookie?” 

Judy smiles, her eyes brightening again. “Thanks.” She leans forward to take one. “I love these.” 

“Me, too.”

+

Apparently, living by Jen’s inadvertent ten p.m. curfew has really been holding Judy back. 

She works on Mondays and Wednesdays (plus a daytime shift on Saturdays), but it’s not unusual for her to have plans on other nights, too. Jen gets used to having dinner with Judy and then not seeing her again until the next morning, dead asleep for at least three more hours when Jen leaves for her morning classes. 

With her nights opening up, Judy’s social circle grows even wider. There are always messages for her on the whiteboard that hangs on their dorm room. Jen only erases a few of them, like when Nate, this rat faced film student who lives on the floor below theirs and always tries to talk to Judy in the dining hall, wrote out an elaborate invitation for a party in his dorm room, cramming in “Activities: I sit on your face” in the bottom corner. She also starts screening calls when she’s in the room, not bothering to pick up the phone unless she hears her mom’s voice on the answering machine. 

There’s a Thursday when Jen wakes up and Judy isn’t in her bed. Her eyes jump automatically to Judy’s desk chair, where her purse usually hangs. It isn’t there. Jen barely saw her yesterday; there isn’t time for them to eat dinner on the nights Judy works. Jen didn’t wake up last night, either, but that’s normal — Judy’s good at coming home and getting ready for bed without any lights or noise.

Jen’s a fucking disaster in classes. She’s got a full hour on the Pilates mat to realize she should have maybe worried sooner about Judy walking back to campus after midnight, by herself. The restaurant where she works isn’t far, maybe six blocks from their dorm but (and Jen’s dimly aware that she sounds like her grandmother here) that’s six blocks where something dangerous could happen. 

By the time ballet starts, Jen tries to put it out of her mind and focus as Madame Lowry demonstrates a warm up combination. It’s simple and short, barely 32 counts, but the steps refuse to settle into her memory. Jen’s head is too full to hold them, and when it’s the students turn, she gets barely four counts in before she’s stumbling out of a glissade with no idea what comes next, immediately falling one, no, _two_ steps behind while her vision tilts with panic and Lowry admonishes her by name, the instructor's voice ringing out sharp and disapproving above the melody.

It’s a humiliation Jen’s managed to avoid so far in this studio, and she feels the burn of it like a torn muscle. It’s enough for Jen to pull herself together, mostly, for the rest of class. She doesn’t get called out again, but _twice_ Lowry catches her eye and does this annoying fucking shrug of her shoulders, indicating that Jen needs to relax her own. 

There are barely ten minutes between ballet and contemporary, just long enough to change shoes, rework a bun, and walk thirty feet to a different practice room. Jen positions herself in the back row, far corner; it basically goes against her most deeply held principles of dance class — she is a front row dancer, _always_ — but she’s apparently going to be useless all fucking morning. She gets through the class without any glaring fuck ups, but she’s still dedicating more energy to trying to remember Judy’s Tuesday/Thursday schedule than nailing a performance. 

She doesn’t stick around for cool downs, just tears out of the studio and heads for the dorm. Judy’s got a copy of her class schedule in her desk somewhere, since Jen apparently has to track her down and find out if Judy where she’s supposed to be or if she’s been missing for... _fuck_ , for like twelve fucking hours now.

She hears music a few seconds before she gets to the room, but Jen’s running on too much momentum for it to register — so it hits like a shock when the door opens and Jen finds herself staring at Judy, putting on makeup and singing along with The Sundays. 

Jen just stands there, stupidly staring, for a line of the song’s chorus before Judy glances over and notices. 

“Oh, hey!” Judy smiles like this is just a pleasant surprise.

“What the _fuck_ , Judy?”

Her smile drops. “What, what’s wrong?” 

“Where the fuck have you _been_?” Jen’s too loud, competing with the music, so she stomps over to the stereo and jabs a finger at the eject button. “You weren’t here this morning, so where the fuck were you?”

“Some of the waitstaff went for drinks after work, and I...that guy Andrew, the one I was telling you about? He was there and I kiiiinda ended up going back to his place.” Judy’s wide eyed and concerned, but she can’t prevent a tiny, flicker of a smile.

It pisses Jen off.

“Jesus Christ,” Jen says through gritted teeth. “What am I supposed to think, if you’re out all night after work— “

“Oh, God…” 

“—and you’ve already basically been mugged once already.” Jen’s half shouting again, even without the music as an excuse.

“Jen, I am _so_ sorry. I swear, I didn’t even think about that.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Jen scoffs. She looks away, dropping her dance bag and kicking it almost violently under her bed.

“I really am sorry.” 

Jen’s face is warm, embarrassment for her overreaction starting to creep in. It turns her sulky and defensive. “If you’d have been at a party or something, I wouldn’t have given a shit, but. Didn’t expect a _dinner_ _shift_ to turn into a fucking hook up.”

Embarrassment makes her mean — really, _everything_ makes her mean. 

“Sorry,” Judy repeats, her voice quieter than before.

“Whatever,” Jen mutters. She turns away, extends her leg and props a heel on top of the minifridge, bending into a stretch so she doesn’t have to look at Judy anymore. “It’s fine.” 

They’re both quiet while Jen runs through a belated cool down; the familiar, instinctive routine of tension and release calms her down, and finally Jen exhales, deliberately loud, and straightens up. “I need a fuckin' cigarette.”

She’s at the door before she looks back at Judy. “You coming or what?” 

Judy’s giving her an odd look, eyes soft and serious. It takes a moment before she nods. “Yeah...coming.”

Judy falls into step with Jen in the hallway, and they walk to their floor’s tiny student lounge, the only place in Franklin Hall where smoking is permitted. 

They’ve been taking smoke breaks together the last few weeks. The first time, Judy had told her, “I didn’t think you’d smoke.” 

“Why’s that?’ 

Judy had grinned, tossing Jen a lighter. “I was told you take the dance program _very fucking seriously_.” She’d said the last part weird, voice low and possibly attempting a terrible Brooklyn accent.

“Fuck you, I don’t smoke the month before performances,” Jen had said haughtily, hiding a smirk around the mouth of the cigarette. There’s always something sweetly amusing about Judy’s attempts to make fun of her: like a baby shouting its first curse word.

Now, though. They pass a lighter between them but don’t really talk. Jen tucks herself into the corner of the couch, and Judy perches on the sill of the window that opens onto the building’s fire escape. She’s still staring at Jen like she’s trying to figure something out.

There’s a guy heating up a plate of Bagel Bites in the microwave, and no matter what anyone makes in there it always makes the room smell like burnt popcorn. Jen kind of hopes he hunkers down and eats in here, but after the beeping goes off, the guy takes his plate and leaves the two of them alone. 

Surprisingly, Judy still waits a few minutes before she speaks. “Hey, um….thank you.” 

Jen narrows her eyes at Judy. “What for?” 

“For worrying, I guess? I’m sorry I didn’t think about that, but...it’s nice of you.” 

Jen doesn’t answer. She lets her head tip back on the couch cushion, aiming smoke at the ceiling in a slow exhale. 

“What time do you have to be in Spanish?” She asks eventually.

Judy looks up at the wall clock. “Oh. Like four minutes ago.” 

Jen has a protein bar for lunch, and leaves twenty minutes before she needs to to walk to Kinesthetics. She’s feeling properly stupid about the whole thing now, not to mention irritated that she was shit in class this morning for no fucking reason. 

But there’s a modern dance workshop in the afternoon, and Jen almost does well enough to erase the memory of this morning. Later on, she and Judy get dinner at the Franklin dining hall, and it’s pretty much normal between them. Jen even asks the obligatory questions about this Andrew guy, trying to keep all traces of leftover resentment out of her tone.

“How old is this dude anyway?”

“I’m not sure, he’s not in school...he’s an _actor_.” 

“I’m sure he is,” Jen says dryly. Judy’s eyes are gleaming, like Jen couldn’t throw her water glass and soak like ten different people in this dining hall who call themselves actors.

“I know he’s at least twenty-one, since he got into the bar.” 

“ _You_ got into the fuckin’ bar.” 

“Oh, yeah, Jason got me another fake.” Her first fake ID, procured by _Jason from Art History_ had been lost with her wallet, now the property of an elderly con artist. Judy goes rummaging in her purse and holds out the license for Jen’s perusal. 

It’s the actual license of someone named Zoe Watterson, who besides having brown hair and brown eyes looks nothing like Judy, but Jen isn’t surprised bouncers let her in anyway. 

She hands it back, rolling her eyes as she does. “That says you’re _5’fucking 9.”_

“I know, I was worried about that, too, but it hasn’t been a problem so far. It also says I’m a Virgo, which...” Judy shakes her head in apparent incredulity. “Clearly not.” 

“ _Clearly_.” 

+

Given that the semester is just shy of two months old, Jen decides it’s probably time to get herself a social life. 

There’s a junior ballerina, Olivia Fry, Jen knows from her dance studio back in Brooklyn. Olivia tells her about a party in one of the on campus apartment suites, and Jen passes the invite along to the other freshmen dancers she has lunch with. 

One of them, Audrey Bauer, invites everyone to meet in her dorm room so they can all show up at the party together, but this turns out to be a pretense for getting a head start on drinking. Based on the stockpile of booze under Audrey’s bed, she might be worth befriending. 

By the time they show up, the party is spilling between multiple suites, the doors in a whole corner of the hallway propped open, competing songs playing from each one, people spilling out and moving between them. It’s a dancer crowd, you can tell from the available alcohol — not a beer in sight, mostly liquor with diet soda for mixers. Jen pours a generous amount of vodka into a cup of Diet Sprite and goes to find Olivia. Audrey, who’s clued into the fact that Jen knows upperclassmen, gloms onto her for the party and the two of them end up playing Kings Cup on the floor of somebody’s bedroom. 

They’ve gone through the full deck of cards twice and Jen is well on her way to drunk; Olivia’s telling them about some bar in SoHo they like to go to on Saturdays, when there’s no cover for girls.

“It’s more divey than clubby, but I kinda like that...there’s a whole room that’s just a dance floor. You guys should come...you have IDs?” 

“Of _course_ ,” Audrey says emphatically. Jen thinks about Judy’s crappy license — a _Virgo_ , of all things! — and kind of laughs, softly, just to herself. Olivia gives her a weird look.

Forcing a straight face, Jen nods. “I’ve got one.” 

She has a _good_ one, with an actual photo of herself; one of her friends in high school had a cousin who made them. She’s never really liked going clubbing with other dancers — they can’t help treating a dance floor like a stage, so even a night out drinking has an undercurrent of competition — but it’d be nice to actually leave the two block radius of campus for the first time in nearly two months. 

It’s nearly two am, and the crowd has barely thinned out, but it’s the latest Jen’s been awake since school started, and the alcohol is coaxing her faster toward exhaustion. It turns out Audrey’s ready to leave, too, but she insists on stopping by the suite’s kitchen first. The counter space is crowded with bottles, and Audrey picks through several before lifting a bottle of blue raspberry vodka in apparent triumph. “Ah-ha! This flavor’s kinda nasty but, more importantly, it’s almost full.” She looks at Jen and gestures at the crowded counters. “Anything you want?” 

“Are you stealing that?” 

Audrey grins and, after twisting the lid on the bottle to make sure it’s tightly sealed, sticks the vodka in a purse even more comically oversized than Judy’s canvas bag. “Why do you think I brought this fucking _picnic basket_ to a party?” 

Yeah, okay, Audrey is definitely worth befriending.

Jen finds an apparently unopened bottle of wine and wedges it into Audrey’s bag. On the walk back to their dorms — Audrey lives in Campbell, which is basically across the street from Franklin — Audrey gives Jen a run down so far on which liquor stores in the Village have accepted her fake ID so far. She has one like Judy’s, though, a discarded license of someone who shares her vague features, and thinks Jen would probably have better luck with hers. 

When they split up at a street corner, Audrey hands Jen the wine she stole. It won’t fit in her bag, and she doesn’t want to risk running into her RA. Feeling idiotic, Jen shoves the bottle into the side of her grungy, frayed edged overalls and sticks a hand in her pocket, holding the bottom of the bottle through the denim fabric. She keeps it there for the elevator ride and an awkward walk down the hall to her room. She doesn’t really _feel_ her own drunkenness until she sticks her key in the door, accidentally locks it, and turns it in the wrong direction before finally managing to get the door open.

Judy’s sitting on her bed with a box of Entenmann’s open on her lap — the cookies are now a staple of their shopping lists — already staring expectantly at the door thanks to Jen’s audible key issues.

“Hey,” Judy smiles, and in the next second her eyes light up. “ _Hey._ Your hair’s down!” 

“You’ve seen my hair down.” 

“Pretty much only when it’s wet. You look gorgeous.”

Jen makes a face, fidgeting under the compliment and its casual delivery.

She’s inexperienced with the brand of female friendship Judy is apparently offering. Dance commitments have always kept her so busy that her closest friends, by default, were the ones she knew from the studio. But there was a barbed intimacy to those relationships, recitals and performance arriving every four months like clockwork to remind them that they were competitors first, friends a distant second. Jen isn’t used to compliments without envy singeing the edges.

She suddenly realizes she’s still got the wine bottle clutched against her hip. She pulls it out.

Judy grins. “ _That’s_ a useful magic trick.” 

“Stole it from the party,” Jen says, a little smug, as if it was all her idea. 

Judy extends the package of cookies in Jen’s direction and shakes it enticingly. “Want some?” 

Jen nods, bringing the wine with her as she sits down beside Judy on her bed, both of them leaning back against the wall. Judy was at a party tonight, too, and she’s still dressed from it, her knees drawn up beneath a long polka dotted skirt; up close, she smells like different kinds of smoke. 

Jen shoves half a cookie in her mouth and opens the wine bottle — it’s a twist top and, now that Jen can see it in decent lighting, a _suspiciously_ bright shade of pink. Jen takes a sip and grimaces; it’s too fucking sweet, practically carbonated. She offers it to Judy, who takes a sip before selecting another cookie. Instead of eating it, though, Judy holds it at eye level and gazes at it admiringly

“Aren’t these the best thing in the world?” Judy marvels. “And it’s made with so few ingredients? Yet somehow it’s _this_ delicious? It’s like….what even _is_ flour? And how is it so crucial to everything delicious?” 

Jen cuts her eyes sideways, studying her roommate. She’s more dreamy eyed than usual. “Are you stoned?” 

“Pffft. Only, like, _barely_.” 

Jen smirks and nudges Judy’s arm with her own. “Uh-huh. And I’m _only like barely_ drunk.” 

They repeat the routine the next night, when Jen returns to the dorm, sweaty and buzzed, from the bar with Olivia and her friends, and Judy gets back around the same time from post-work drinks. 

Judy’s kind of quiet at first, and with a few questions Jen is able to glean that there was no semblance of an afterglow with Andrew the actor slash waiter. But she seems to cheer up pretty quickly; they finish off the cookie package and trade sips of lukewarm wine while Jen makes Judy laugh with descriptions of dance students trying to show off their ballet honed skills to “Gangsta’s Paradise.” 

+

“Uh, Judy? Why is the entire fridge full of to-go boxes?” 

“Shit, sorry…I can move some stuff to the lounge fridge.”

“It’s fine, it’s just, you know…” Jen manages to extract her water bottle from the styrofoam packed minifridge before looking up at her roommate. “What the fuck?” 

“Dining halls are closed starting Thursday...just figured I should stock up for the break.” 

“Uh huh.” Ever since Judy started her waitress job, she’s gotten into the habit of bringing to go boxes, obviously pilfered from the restaurant, to carry out extra food from the dining hall. But her current stockpile seems excessive; fall break’s basically a four day weekend. “I think it’s back open on Sunday afternoon, right?”

“Yeah....” Judy crouches down beside her, peering critically into the fridge. “I maybe went overboard.” 

Jen rolls her eyes at the understatement, closing the fridge and standing up. Judy cranes her neck to look up at her, and Jen offers her a hand without thinking about it.

Judy flashes a grateful smile, letting Jen haul her to her feet. “So when are you heading home?” 

“I’m not.” 

“Really? You’ll be here all weekend?” 

Jen has her excuse ready, trots it out like she’s rehearsing a play. “Showcase auditions are coming up. I wanna take advantage of the studio time.”

She’s done that thing again, anticipating an argument, so she’s got her defenses locked and loaded — _yes , her house in Brooklyn is only half hour by train, and _ _no_ _that doesn’t mean she has to seize every fucking opportunity to go there_ — but Judy just beams at her, any surprise quickly giving way to delight. 

“It’s so nice that you’re staying! I figured it was gonna be kind of a lonely weekend.”

“Yeah, well, get excited, cause I’m providing the _best_ kind of company.” Jen waits for Judy’s questioning look to explain, “Audrey told me which places close by have taken her fake...I’m gonna swing by after class and grab some _libations_.”

“Ah, interesting.” Judy smirks a little. “So I’m _not_ the only one stocking up.” 

“Hey, it’s still our vacation, right? Even if we’re not going anywhere.” 

“ _That_ is solid logic.” 

“Any requests?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Vodka, maybe? Or whiskey. Unless you were thinking tequila, it does mix well with a lot of different stuff, so that might be smart. Y’know what, that wine last week was actually fine, too.”

“So....you don’t care.” 

“I really don’t.” 

+

Jen isn’t really expecting such a noticeable mass exodus from campus. There must be plenty of students like Judy, who live too far away to go home for such a short break, or like Jen, who could but would rather fucking not. 

But Jen gets back to the dorm around seven thirty on Wednesday night after snagging some time in one of the studio rooms, and already there are far more empty tables than occupied ones in the Franklin dining hall. Jen keeps her headphones on and has a quick salad bar dinner before heading back to her room. Even the hall bathroom is pretty much deserted, making it the first shower Jen’s had all semester that is undisturbed by echoey conversations from the sinks, constant flushing, or a shower radio that’s either a weirdly common possession on this floor or the property of someone with Jen’s precise shower schedule.

Judy’s at work for her regular Wednesday night shift, leaving Jen alone in their room with fuck all to do. Well, she’s got reading to catch up on from her pointless English Lit class, but there are four full days ahead for that, and _homework_ seems like a lame way to spend what is, technically, the first night of a break. So does going to sleep close to her usual time. 

Jen unlatches the room's only window, between their beds and above the minifridge. It looks out over Tenth Street, and Judy hung these gauzy, patterned curtains sometime around their second week here. Jen pulls the window halfway open, then wanders over to her desk for a cigarette. Supposedly, Franklin Hall used to be a full smoking dorm until, like, five years ago, so it’s not like it’ll hurt anything. Jen can light one of Judy’s incense sticks to cover the smell (Autumnal Twilight is actually kind of a nice), but she’s pretty sure Shannon, their slightly geeky RA who has dedicated her life to the English Horn, has absconded for the week anyway.

Jen perches on top of her desk with her feet in the chair and turns on the stereo; it’s in the middle of one of her mixes that Judy seems to like a lot. She must be figuring out the track listings, since Jen’s started to notice certain tapes on heavy rotation. 

Judy does _really_ like The Cranberries.

Leaning back against the wall and exhaling smoke in the vague direction of the window, Jen lets her gaze rove idly along Judy’s side of the room. She still hasn’t put up any of her own art, probably because assignments in her intro level drawing class are fairly rudimentary; there _is_ a watercolor astrological chart Judy apparently painted herself, but Jen refuses to categorize that as _art_. 

Still, the walls have gotten fairly crowded over the last two months; there are several poster prints of allegedly famous paintings, gift shop finds from when Judy was playing tourist at all major Manhattan art museums. Her closet door is dominated by a print showing the phases of the moon; when she first hung it, Jen had asked why they couldn’t just check the fucking sky. 

Oh, and Judy has an oversized dreamcatcher hanging above the head of her bed. Because of course she fucking does.

Jen’s walls really do look prison cell, asylum patient blank in comparison. She had firmly decided before coming to college that she wasn’t going to be one of those obnoxious photo collage people with a bulletin board crowded with snapshots from graduation and prom and summer dance intensives. Fortunately, Judy isn’t one of those people, either, limiting herself to a single framed photo on her desk — it’s Judy as a little kid, gap toothed and pigtailed and _still_ wearing dresses with too many colliding colors, with her mom on a beach somewhere. 

Anyway. The point is, Jen is still committed to her _no photo collage_ vow, but she could probably stand to put up _something._ She’s got a collection of Playbills in her room back home, kept safe between hard plastic folders in her nightstand, the corners pristine and spines uncreased, but maybe they’re worth displaying. They could line her walls like a declaration, a reminder of what she wants and why she’s here. 

No rush to get them, though, obviously. She’ll be home at Thanksgiving.

+

Judy gets back a little after midnight, in her work clothes that always throw Jen off a little (white button up, black jeans). The scent of garlic bread wafts into the dorm room with her, and immediately it’s got Jen craving carbs. 

“Oh, hey!” Judy smiles at her, this specific recurring smile that always gives the impression that Jen’s entirely expected presence is a delightful surprise. “Forgot you might still be up.” 

“Fall break, whoo hoo,” Jen intones flatly. She’s migrated to her bed by now, half a pack of cigarettes gone and _The Sound and the Fury_ briefly attempted and then abandoned on the floor. She sits up for the first time in an hour, raking a hand through her hair, tangled and knotty from drying on its own. 

Judy’s standing in the center of the room with her head slightly tilted, breathing in deeply. “Is that Autumnal Twilight?” 

“ _Maybe_.” Jen smirks, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and lifting her comforter. “Look.” She knocks her heel against the bag holding her recent purchase: a handle of Everclear and two bottles of wine. 

“Fall break, whoo hoo,” Judy repeats with a grin. She’s in front of her dresser now, swapping the black jeans for pajama pants (possibly the only other pair of pants she owns, though these are loose and silky and could easily be mistaken for one of her many patterned skirts) and the button down for a tank top. Jen is way too used to crowded dressing rooms and hurried backstage costume changes to have any semblance of roommate modesty, and she’s glad Judy’s not weird about that stuff either. 

“Shall we do a toast to the break?” Judy asks when she’s finished changing. 

“A toast to Shannon’s absence, maybe.” Jen pulls out the Everclear. “Though it could get kinda sad if we’re just drinking in the room for the next four days.” 

“We could go watch TV in the common room,” Judy suggests. Jen is about to make fun of her for thinking TV in the common room remotely counts as shaking things up, but then Judy’s face lights up and she says, “Ooh, actually, the TV in the basement might actually be free for once.”

Honestly, she’s so sincere sometimes it’s not even worth the teasing. 

“Is there even anything good on TV this late on a weeknight?” 

Judy gives Jen a look like that was a ridiculous question.

+

“I truly had no idea _Facts of Life_ was still on every fucking night.” 

“Oh, yeah. There’ll be another episode on after this...then at two we can switch to Nick at Nite and watch _Bewitched_.” 

Jen shakes her head in disbelief, taking a sip of her drink and pulling a face at the harsh bite of vodka. They’ve got Sprites from the vending machines, half of the soda sacrificed down the sink and replaced with Everclear, sitting close on the basement couch to avoid the cushion stained with (hopefully) beer. Jen flipped it so the stain was hidden, but still. They know it’s there.

Jen nudges the weight of her shoulder against Judy’s. “Why do you _know_ that?” 

Judy’s answering smile is smaller than usual. “It’s gonna sound kinda cheesy.” 

Jen nearly snickers at that. Judy is easily the most earnest teenager she’s ever met; Jen can’t imagine what her bar might be for _cheesy_. But the show’s rolled into a commercial, and Jen gives Judy her full attention. “Okay, I am bracing for cheesy.”

Judy’s face scrunches in a frankly kind of adorable expression. “I don’t know, I’ve just always liked older shows like this. Especially comedies, when they’re _so_ many episodes and they’re all pretty similar? It’s kind of comforting, don’t you think? Like especially when you’re in a new place or something...you can always find Jo and Blair and Tootie and Mrs. Garret and they’re always familiar.” 

Jen’s quiet for a moment. She remembers the letter Judy sent over the summer, how it said something about she and her mom bouncing around a lot, even though they stayed in California. For a second, she considers asking about that, if it was her mom’s job or something else that meant they were always moving, but Jen would rather not introduce the topic of parents.

Instead she nudges Judy’s arm again. “ _Wow_.” Her voice turns warm and teasing. “That’s a real diss on Natalie.” 

Judy starts laughing. “Oh, no! I’d never diss Natalie.” 

Jen shakes her head, mockingly sorrowful. “And yet you have…”

“Poor Natalie.” 

“Poor, _poor_ Natalie.” 

“To Natalie!” Judy lifts her Sprite bottle aloft; Jen solemnly echoes the toast and taps her drink against Judy’s. The vodka assists in making this sentiment inexplicably funny, and they miss half of the episode’s tag trying to stop giggling.

+

They stay in the basement lounge until three a.m., when the block of _Bewitched_ is followed by _The Munsters_ and loses their interest. The Sprite bottles have been solely vodka for the last episode they watched, so Jen falls asleep fast and hard and, apparently, soundly enough to turn off her alarm at nine the next morning and sleep for almost three more hours. 

When she wakes up, Judy’s not in the room, which is a first (well, a second, but Jen’s just decided to pretend that never happened). Jen groans and pulls her comforter over head until she hears the door open and shut very quietly.

Jen throws the covers off and sees Judy, dressed for work and holding a blowdryer and her shower caddy. She grimaces apologetically. “Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

“No...is it really almost noon?” 

“Apparently, yeah. I gotta get to work.” Jen’s confused for a second before remembering Judy picked up an extra daytime shift today, taking advantage of the cancelled classes. 

One of Judy’s to go boxes is open on her desk, apparently a hurried lunch before work. She picks up what’s left of a sandwich and takes a bite, using one hand to put on her shoes. If she’s experiencing a fraction of the headache Jen is, it’s an impressive display. 

“You heading to the studio soon?” Judy asks when she’s finished, stuffing the container in their tiny trash can. 

“Ummm...I don’t know if I can? My body might be ruined.” 

Judy laughs at her. “Here. This should help.” She drops a bottle of aspirin on Jen’s comforter and then pulls a bottle of water from the fridge and hands it to her. 

“Gross, you’re like a fucking mom. At _college_ ,” Jen gripes, ducking back under the covers. She can hear Judy laughing. “How are you not hungover?”

“Oh, I am. But I’m smiling through it, because I have to go wait tables for seven hours.” 

“Godspeed.” 

“I’ll see ya later.” 

“Bye. Oh, hey, can you, like, steal some garlic bread and bring it back here? Your clothes always smell like they have good garlic bread.”

“I can. And they do. Bye, Jen.” 

Jen mumbles something incoherent in reply just before the door closes. She forces herself to fumble for the aspirin bottle and down a few. It takes a half hour of lying in bed getting used to the daylight before Jen drags herself up and attempts some uncomfortable, stiff limbed stretches, then another hour or so after that before she gets dressed, eats a protein bar, and ventures out of the dorm. 

It’s the first time she has to use her access code to get into the studio itself, not just one of the rehearsal rooms. In theory, the building is available to all enrolled dance students twenty-four hours a day, year round. There are several older students rehearsing in one of the larger rehearsal rooms where classe are held — senior year in the program functions like a real dance company, so Jen doubts they get much time off during breaks — but she has her pick of the smaller practice rooms. 

After a few hours, Jen’s hangover is a distant memory. She’d planned to rehearse twice today, in the morning and then again before dinner, but the late start threw her off. She decides to settle for an extra long session, staying almost three hours in the studio, and then call it for the day, rather than sit around sweaty all night just waiting to go back. 

She’ll make up for it tomorrow, Jen decides later while she’s drying her hair in her dorm room, stereo turned loud enough so she can hear Garbage wailing over the blow dryer. 

Hair done, she puts on the Levis with the biggest holes in the knees and this red tank top that exactly matches her favorite lipstick. Jen spends so much of her time here in leotards and workout clothes, always too few hours away from rehearsals to bother with her hair or makeup, the recent weekend nights out and the actual _getting ready_ they require have been a nice change. Even tonight, when she’s probably just hanging out with Judy, stepping back to check her appearance provokes a warm thrill of satisfaction. Putting in effort may be rare lately, but it still fucking pays off.

Except Judy’s not off work for another two hours. They hadn’t even talked about specific plans for tonight, but being in the room makes Jen feel more bored and impatient, like a kid waiting to be picked up for a sleepover. She takes her cigarettes and William Faulkner novel into the common room, smoking slowly through like forty-two pages before she gives up. 

She ends up grabbing her Walkman and her leather jacket and walking to Judy’s restaurant, taking a longer than necessary route so she gets there five minutes before Judy’s shift is supposed to end. Jen’s planning to just wait out on the sidewalk, but the restaurant lobby seems crowded with people waiting for a table, and when she catches a glimpse of a guy working the host stand, curiosity gets her inside.

“Hi, welcome to Portofino, how many for dinner?” The guy recites lazily as soon as Jen steps inside. 

“That’s okay.” Jen says dismissively, sidling toward the far end of the waiting area so she can find Judy in the dining room. 

“Are you looking for your party?” 

Jen fakes smiles in his direction. “I’m good, I’m just waiting for someone.” 

“It’s a forty-five minute wait right now, so you probably want to put a name in?” 

Jen glances at the guy again. He’s good looking in that generic, aspiring actor way, and he looks maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. This restaurant is apparently too classy for staff name tags, but Jen kind of hopes he’s Andrew, because she seems to be annoying him.

She decides to ignore him, turning her attention back to the dining area. She sees Judy now, smiling sweetly at the occupants of a table. It takes a minute for her to spot Jen; she double takes and then gives Jen a confused, but of course still pleasantly surprised, smile. Jen waves, immediately aiming a smug smirk toward the host to make sure he sees. 

Judy disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes before she heads over to Jen. “Hey! What are you doing here?” 

“Got bored in the dorms,” Jen says honestly. “You wanna get pizza or something? Not here.” 

“Sure! Give me two minutes, I just have to wrap up with one table and clock out.” 

“Hey…” Jen catches her sleeve to stop her from leaving. She turns so her back is to the host stand, lowers her voice to ask, “Which one is Andrew?” 

“Oh.” Judy nods in the direction of the dining room. “Behind the bar, with the red tie.” 

Jen immediately follows her gaze, eying the bartender. She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Jesus, Judy, that guy’s like _thirty_.” 

“ _No_ , he isn’t! You think?” 

“Well. He’s at least twenty five.” 

“Don’t stare.” Judy’s hand is on Jen’s back, and she pivots her gently in the opposite direction. “I don’t want him to think I’m talking about him.” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “He should be _worried_ we’re talking about him. Maybe we’re deciding whether to call the fucking cops.” 

“ _Jen_.” Judy looks appalled. “I’m eighteen, it’s not a _crime_.” 

“He buy you a drink? Crime.” Jen arches an eyebrow. “Say the word, we’ll have him arrested.”

Judy shakes her head, but she’s smiling like she’s trying not to. “I’ll be right back. Maybe you just...stay here.” 

“Oh, you don’t want me to go to the bar? Say hello?” Jen calls, mock innocent, as Judy walks away.

+

“He didn’t really do anything wrong,” Judy explains later, when they’re walking to a pizzeria Jen knows. “I think I talked too much or seemed too into it or something.” 

Jen cuts her eyes at Judy, skeptical. She waits until she swallows a bite of garlic bread, which Judy still smuggled out for her despite their immediate dinner plans. “So is he actually talking to you again?”

“Not really.” Jen huffs out a low, scoffing sound but doesn’t reply. After a moment, Judy asks, “Do you really think he was _thirty_?” 

“Eh, I can’t be sure. Maybe it was the low lighting.” Jen pauses, then adds, “We can only hope his acting career takes off soon...he’s gotta be getting too old to play a fucking frat boy in a beer commercial, and I’m pretty sure that’s his only shot.” 

Judy laughs. “He _does_ kinda have that look, doesn’t he?” 

“Yep, and that look is fucking _limiting_. That’s the place.” Jen gestures at the pizzeria across the street. 

They’re waiting at the crosswalk when Judy looks at Jen and says, apropos of nothing, “Is your birthday coming up?” 

“Uh, yeah, next week, actually.” Jen narrows her eyes. “How’d you know that?” 

Judy grins proudly. “Because you’re _such_ a Scorpio.” 

Jen makes an exaggerated gagging sound, but Judy just smirks and talks over her. “I was right, _so_. You gotta admit there’s something to it.” 

“I absolutely fucking don’t and _won’t_ ,” Jen insists as they cross the street. 

Judy laughs at her, still looking obnoxiously pleased with herself. “So, wait, are you old for our year or young?” 

It takes Jen a second to figure out what she’s asking, that it has nothing to do with fucking _astrology_. “Oh. Young...just now turning eighteen.”

“Ooh, big one. Excited to buy your first legal cigarettes?” 

“Nah, that’s old news...I’m gonna go out and _vote_.” Judy giggles, so Jen keeps the bit going. “Maybe there’s not an election, but I _will_ show up at a fucking elementary school and forcibly cast a ballot.” 

They head into the restaurant then, and when they’re deciding on what pizza to order Jen passionately insists on pepperoni, making Judy pick them off as a punishment for her astrology arrogance. Later, on the walk back to the dorm, Jen grabs Judy’s arm and tugs her into a Blockbuster Video — “No offense to Mrs. Garrett and the girls, but we _gotta_ do better than sitcom reruns tonight.”

Judy’s annoyingly agreeable to any movie Jen suggests until she finally insists they both have to choose one. Back at the dorm, the Everclear stays under Jen’s bed, but they do pour wine into emptied out Gatorade bottles — not enough to repeat this morning’s hangover, but just to class up the batshit double feature of _Death Becomes Her_ and Judy’s (predictable) pick, _When Harry Met Sally._

+

Jen actually gets out of bed and to the studio at a decent hour the next morning; Judy’s still in bed when she gets back to the dorms. They have leftover pizza for lunch and then Judy kind of apologetically says she has to do some studying for upcoming midterms. They can both work with music on, so Jen puts on one of her quieter mixes before stretching out on her bed and reluctantly returning to Faulkner. Judy’s actually sitting at her desk, making flash cards for her Spanish class. Jen glances over every once in a while and notices Judy sometimes opts to sketch a quick illustration rather than write out the English translation. This must add a fair amount of non-studying time to the process, but Jen refrains from commenting. 

Late afternoon, Jen goes back to the studio for a while, returning to a note from Judy on the whiteboard; apparently, she’s in the library’s computer lab working on a paper for Art History, and Jen should help herself to any of Judy’s dining hall takeout meals. 

Jen showers and dries her hair, and Judy still isn’t back. She’s only been in school for two months, but Jen has apparently forgotten how to deal with down time. Twenty minutes on her own in the dorm room and she’s chafing under the boredom.

She eventually pulls her mat out and starts stretching just to have something to fucking do. Jen’s wearing leggings and an old recital shirt with the neck cut out, and when Judy finally gets back Jen’s on the floor between their beds in a full side split.

“Well, _hey_ ,” Judy’s eyes flare, mock suggestive. “It’s not even my birthday.” 

Jen makes a face at her. “Okay, weirdo.” 

Judy giggles. “What are you _doing_?” 

“Working through extreme fucking boredom.” 

“Okay...so what are _we_ doing?” She sits on her bed while Jen pulls her legs together. “We could, like...go to a movie or something?” 

“I called earlier, there’s nothing good playing.” 

“Hmmm, okay.” Judy sits back, leaning against the wall, expression set in concentration like it's her sole responsibility to come up with a plan. Jen decides to keep quiet, wait patiently, and see what she comes up with.

“ _Oh_.” Judy says finally, a slow, satisfied smile taking over her face. “I know what we’re doing.” 

“I’m hearing a lot of confidence…” Jen says, resting her chin on her knees and watching Judy get up and walk to her dresser.

Judy pulls out a box of tampons. 

Jen snorts. “Uh, if your plan is to menstruate, I’ve got a few days.” 

Judy laughs. She seems to be sorting through the box, looking for a _particular_ tampon, maybe. “Hold on…”

“Fiiiiine, I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Here!” Judy drops the box back in the drawer and pulls two tightly rolled joint out of a plastic Tampax wrapper, holding them up triumphantly like a feminist stoner magician. 

“I don’t know…” Jen gives her a doubtful look. “I’m not really a drugs person.” 

“It’s not drugs. It’s a _plant_.” Judy grins. “You’ve really never tried it?”

“I, like, took a few hits at a party once, when I was a sophomore. Didn’t do much for me.” 

“A lot of people don’t feel anything their first time. I think cause they don’t hold it in long enough.” Judy sits down on her bed again, lightly nudging Jen’s knee with the toe of her shoe. “Come on, I thought you were _sooo_ fucking bored.” 

“You’re a literal fucking peer pressure skit right now, do you realize that?” 

Judy laughs, dropping the pitch of her voice and shooting Jen an enticing smile. “ _C’mon_ , all the cool kids are doing it.” 

Jen exhales a dramatic sigh and rolls her eyes in defeat. “ _Fine_ , crack the fucking window.”

+

“Music…” Jen begins, confident and declarative. “...is just _poetry_.” 

She pauses, considering the wisdom of the statement, then screws up her face in confusion. “Does everyone know that?” 

“I don’t think they do.” Judy sounds appropriately awed by the realization. They’re both on Jen’s bed, barefoot and baked. “But also? It’s _crazy_ someone wrote a song this good.” 

Alanis Morissette is playing on the stereo, the inspiration for Jen’s earlier epiphany, so she obviously nods in vehement agreement, then eats another chocolate chip cookie. 

“I really _believe_ her, y’know?” Judy muses. “I hear this song, and it’s just like...everything _is_ gonna be fine, fine, fine.” 

“She _knows_ ,” Jen agrees solemnly. She closes her eyes and tips her head back, leaning against the wall, letting the music and the Autumnal Twilight Judy lit to cover the weed smell wash over her. 

“Hey, Jen?” Judy breaks a couple minutes of silence. She’s whispering for some reason.

“Mmmmm?”

“You’re feeling it, right?” 

Jen starts laughing and doesn’t stop. It’s just so fucking funny that she has to _ask_. 

“Yeah, Judy, I fuckin’ feel it.” 

Judy grins. “Could you still do a split though?” 

“Pssh.” Jen slides off the bed onto the floor, placing herself in another side split. 

Judy props her chin on her palm, eyes wide and impressed. “It’s crazy your body just _does_ that.” 

Jen can’t resist showing off a little, bending her torso and reaching over her head toward her toes. She’s pretty sure attempting this stretch drunk would make her dizzy and nauseous, but stoned is clearly a whole different sensation, like Jen is extra in tune with her own body and its capabilities. She bends in the opposite direction, marveling at herself. 

“You’re like Gumby,” Judy observes, and it makes Jen laugh, picturing her limbs long and rubbery and green. 

She bends forward again, getting her face inches from the floor, still giggling to herself at the Gumby image when Judy sighs, loud and dreamy. “I still can’t wait to see you dance.”

Jen pops up from the floor, giving Judy an indignant look, like she’s issued a challenge. “I could dance right now.”

Judy laughs. “What, to this?” 

It’s Alanis, still, a few tracks further into the album. 

“ _No_.” Jen stands up and starts looking around for her jacket. “We’ll go to the studio. I can get in anytime.” 

Judy blinks at her. “Are you serious?” 

Jen is entirely serious. Going to the studio right now feels like a fantastic fucking idea; in fact, she suspects she might never again dance as well as she could dance right now, in this moment, and she wants Judy to see. 

She doesn’t even answer Judy’s question, just puts on her jacket and gives her an impatient look. “Are you _coming_?” 

Judy’s face splits into a smile; she looks like a kid who just got a surprise trip to Disneyland. “ _Yes_ , this is amazing, let’s go.” 

Judy turns off the stereo on their way out of the room, and Jen can hear her singing the last few lines — “... _I couldn’t help iiit, it’s all your fault.”_ — under her breath while they wait for the elevator. 

+

Judy’s shivering by the time they cross the park in the center of campus and make it to the dance studio. She’d never changed out of the dress she’d worn all day — floral print with thin straps, layered over a short sleeve white t-shirt — but it’s mid-October and they are hours past an actual autumnal twilight, heh heh. Jen should maybe be concerned that Judy’s Californian wardrobe is not prepared for the coming winter; she punches her code into the door as quickly as she can, and makes a mental note to revisit that potential issue when they’re no longer high. 

She leads Judy to one of the largest rehearsal rooms and flips on the lights. “There is where my contemporary class is every day.”

“Nice.” Judy surveys the room appreciatively. “Where should I sit? I want optimal viewing.” 

Jen doesn’t answer. She’s making eye contact with her own reflection, the bright light and the familiar room unexpectedly disorienting. It’s hard to ignore, all of a sudden, that this is very much _not_ how she usually feels in this room. 

“Hey.” Judy touches her wrist. “You okay?” 

“Ummmm. Possibly. I was completely fucking sure I could dance and be high at the same time but, um. Now that we’re here I am...less fucking sure.” 

“Jen. _Jen_. Look at me.” Judy clasps her shoulders with both hands, making stern, unshakable eye contact. “You _can_ dance.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“And you know what else? You can _jive_.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“Having, just...the _time_ of your _life_.” Judy’s lips twitch and her eyes are sparkling and Jen shoves her face away.

“I hate you.” 

“ _See that girl...watch that scene…”_

“Okay, _fine_. Christ. Any excuse for a new song.” 

“Excellent.” Judy beams, annoyingly pleased with herself. “Do you have music?” 

“Yeah, I’ll find something,” she mutters, keeping hold of her purse as she heads for the sound system in the corner of the room. There are stacks of tapes and CDs there, but Jen doesn’t need to go through them, rummaging instead through her bag for a cassette that’s been there all semester. It’s a mixtape, the label sharpie scrawled with “Solo Songs.” 

It’s probably stupid, carrying the thing around in case of some spontaneous, impossible audition, like any college instructor is suddenly going to demand to see her best routine, give her two minutes notice to prove herself worthy of being here. But in the unlikely event that such a situation ever arises, Jen will be prepared. 

The first track is really all she needs; Jen first used it for a lyrical solo at a summer intensive before her junior year of high school, then reworked it slightly last year, making it the climactic piece for her final recital with Ms. Bryant’s studio. It’s the kind of song they used to joke about, feigning cynicism at the crowd pleasers, the hits that seemed tailor made to wring tears from the moms and grandmothers...but Jen knows how fucking good she is to this song, how bone deep she knows and nails this performance. 

Of course it’s the one she wants to show Judy.

Jen sticks the tape into the stereo, then kicks out of her Converse and pulls off her socks, flexing her toes and bouncing on the balls of her feet to feel out the smooth wooden floor. She glances back at Judy, sitting down now with her back against a mirror wall, and has to stifle a fresh stream of giggling over the absurdity of this...sole dancer and audience member both high as fucking kites for a private, midnight performance. 

Jen surveys the room for a moment. “Judy, c’mere….sit so you can press play when I tell you.” 

Obediently, Judy gets to her feet and walks over, resuming her position on the floor within reach of the stereo. Jen backs away from her, closer to the center of the room. She glances sideways, sees them both in the mirror. 

“Okay.” Jen sets her feet, straightens her spine. “Go.”

Judy presses play, sliding away from the stereo just as the first chord begins. Their eyes catch, and Judy smiles big, anticipation shimmering off her, practically giving off light.

 _Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for awhile_ _  
_ _Heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies…_

+

The song fills the room and also Judy’s entire chest, with Jen glowing right at the center of it, so bright and beautiful it hurts her eyes. 

Judy loves art, and she’d thought she understood it, could even call herself an artist with easy confidence, but she’s never seen anything like this: the way Jen’s body is both the medium and the creation, the artist _and_ the art itself. 

It’s a kind of magic, and Judy never wants to look away. 

She is stoned, yes. But weed alone cannot account for the way the atmosphere has shifted in the room, laws of physics temporarily suspended. Judy hasn’t had to breathe since the song started, and fifteen feet away Jen is moving like someone gravity can’t quite touch. 

Judy sighs, soft and happy. This is the best night. The best _week_ really.

She loves everything about college, loves everything about New York City, even, but having Jen as a roommate is where Judy feels the most lucky. She’s been so ridiculously nice: sharing tips on how to get around the city, letting Judy use her stuff...even giving her a Walkman, to _keep_ , for _no reason_. 

But after these past few days, Judy finally feels certain that Jen actually likes hanging out with her, that she isn’t just being nice about it. 

Judy knows she can be too much sometimes, that she makes it hard on people. She’ll always remember overhearing Miss Brenda, her first foster mom, saying to her case worker: _Judy’s a sweet girl, but so needy for her age._

She was almost thirteen years old then. Now, at eighteen, Judy tries to be careful. Coming here, she promised herself she would be. It’s why she says yes to all plans that are offered, meets people and makes friends in every class and every pocket of the campus she’s found. It keeps her from being clingy, needing any one person too much. 

Most of the people Judy’s met so far have been great. She has a different lunch table full of friends for each day of the week, and she genuinely likes all of them. But she hasn’t laughed nearly as much at any of those tables as she has these last two days with only Jen for company. 

The song ends, and Jen just stands up straight, rolling out her shoulders and walking over to Judy as if she’s an ordinary human again. She grins, somewhere between smug and sheepish. “Thought it’d feel different doing that high. Power of muscle memory.”

Judy breaks into belated, awkwardly direct applause. “That was incredible.” She grabs Jen’s hand and tugs her down so they’re sitting beside each other. “ _You’re_ incredible.” Jen rolls her eyes like she’s going to brush off the praise, but Judy wants her to get how much she means it. “Like…amazing, phenomenal, fantastic. Gorgeous. All the good adjectives, okay?” 

“Thanks. You’re clearly still high.” But Jen’s biting her lip on top of a pleased smile, so Judy decides the compliments were accepted. 

Jen pulls her hair free of a ponytail holder, shaking it out so it falls bright and wild around her face, still flushed with exertion. Judy’s probably staring; she drops her gaze to the wood panel of the dance floor, and says casually, “You know, I’ve got a code to get into the art building, too.” 

“Oh, yeah?” She can hear Jen’s smirk without seeing it. “Is it your turn now? Wanna go over there and speed paint a portrait or something?” 

“No way, I’m not following that.” Judy looks up again, smiling at her. “But we could still go, though. Just to check it out….there are vending machines on the third floor.”

Jen grins. “Let’s go, then, I’m fucking starving.” 

+

There’s a manic sort of giddiness that settles over Jen and Judy in Hudson Hall, nine floors of dark rooms and studios and the ever present smell of turpentine and oil paint. As promised, Judy leads Jen to the third floor vending machines; they buy sodas and candy bars and then keep climbing the stairs, stopping to explore every floor. It feels like they’re breaking a rule just being there; little kids with no bedtime, their laughter echoing through an empty, silent building. 

There are rooms Judy hasn’t even seen yet, and she feels a little guilty, wandering studios with half finished paintings, like she’s peeking behind a curtain. But Jen starts talking in this horrible French accent, playing like an art snob - “Dear me, Reginald, zis part-ee-cular canvas eez, how you say...fucking dogshit.” - and Judy adopts a British voice in return - “Indeed and cheerio, Juliette, the use of color is a right laugh!” It’s all nonsense, but Judy’s sides hurt from laughing by the time they leave.

Walking back to the dorm, Judy doesn’t even notice she’s started singing out loud until Jen joins in, possibly mocking her but it barely makes a difference. It’s still _both_ of them bursting into the dorm lobby belting out, _“‘Cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket, and the other one is giving a PEACE SIGN!”_

They’re still singing in the elevator, crawling toward the seventh floor, when suddenly it dings unexpectedly on the third. Judy clamps her mouth shut just as the doors slide open; Jen’s gone quiet, too, and a girl in boxer shorts and a rumpled T-shirt steps on between them. 

It isn’t remotely accurate, but the girl feels like the first person besides Jen that Judy has seen in days, maybe even weeks. Judy fixes her stare on the wall of buttons, seven and six now lit up, certain if she so much as glances in Jen’s direction they’ll both crack up. 

The elevator dings on the sixth floor. The doors open, the girl steps out, and the doors close again. Beside her, Jen half chokes on a rising laugh, but Judy is right back in it — “ _I’m brave but I’m chickenshit, I’m sick but I’m pretty, BA-BY,”_ — like the campus and the elevator and the song are still all theirs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some tunes (* indicates source of the chapter title)
> 
> "Linger" | The Cranberries  
> "32 Flavors" | Ani DiFranco  
> "Wild Horses" | The Sundays  
> "Only Happy When It Rains" | Garbage  
> "Hand in My Pocket" | Alanis Morissette  
> "Head Over Feet" | Alanis Morissette*  
> "Forever Young" | Alphaville  
> 


	2. will the whole world be warm as this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! the response to this fic has been awesome and overwhelming and just a really cool way to enter a new fandom. huge effusive thanks to everyone who read and commented, and bonus thanks to those of you who directed us to DTM twitter for fic talk. 
> 
> this fic is our big quarantine project (and we live in california, with no end in sight so....silver lining?), and we've got a full outline but are appallingly terrible at predicting word count or writing time. we originally thought two chapters could cover each school year, but it's become clear that's not gonna work. basically, we're reassessing the structure/chapter cut off poitns and could end up with slightly shorter chapters but more frequent updates. but for now, have another monstrous chapter! thanks for sticking around, we'd love to hear what you think of this one. oh, and we're @bloomswine on twitter, still new to the venue for fandom, so feel free to say hi!

On Friday, October 27th, Jen’s alarm goes off at her usual 6:07 wake up time. She keeps the volume set fairly low, the alarm clock itself perched awkwardly between her bed and the wall, cord wrapped around the bedpost so it’s a few inches from Jen’s face. She’s gotten good at getting herself instantly awake and punching the off button within seconds.

Jen _thought_ she’d gotten good at getting dressed and leaving the dorm room without making any noise, but today after she’s changed into her leotard and is pulling on a jacket, she hears Judy’s voice behind her, soft and fuzzy with sleep. “Hey….happy birthday.” 

“Thanks,” Jen whispers, turning to look at her. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmkay.” Judy smiles blearily at her before sinking back into her pillow for another three hours. 

Jen grabs her dance bag and Walkman and slips out of the dorm. 

Before class, Jen stretches at the barre with Audrey and Matthew Porter, one of the guys from their lunch table who Audrey seems to have appointed as her new best friend. Jen likes Matthew, a laid back gay guy from Georgia who speaks with a deep southern drawl that still sort of takes her by surprise, and the three of them have fallen into a routine of warming up together ever since the upperclassman party, but Jen doesn’t mention her birthday to either of them. Audrey definitely seems like the type to greet the news with demands to know where they’re drinking, and Jen would rather just hang out with Judy than be subjected to a birthday night out with classmates she barely knows. Besides, Halloween is this Tuesday, and in New York City it’s pretty much a week long holiday; the whole campus is sure to be drunk and costumed all weekend.

Kinesthetics of Anatomy is Jen’s last class of the day, ending at four. Judy finishes around the same time, but her Art History class is closer to the dorm so she usually beats Jen back to their room by a few minutes. 

Today she isn’t there yet, which gives Jen time to listen to the birthday messages on the answering machine. She calls back her parents, and all three grandparents – Grandma and Pops sang a badly harmonized rendition of “Happy Birthday” over the machine but still perform a reprise when she calls – but not Aunt Susan and her cousins. Phone calls with them are always an endless ordeal, waiting for Susan to wrangle all three kids, none of whom are great phone conversationalists, for their turn to talk. 

Still, the three phone calls take the better part of an hour, but when Jen hangs up with her grandfather on her mom’s side, Judy still isn’t back. Jen begins to suspect she might be waiting in line at a bakery somewhere, is maybe even in the dormitory’s basement kitchen baking something herself. She’ll probably show up in twenty minutes with a cake or tray of cupcakes that will definitely have sprinkles. 

They haven’t really made a plan for tonight, other than an unopened bottle of Fireball under Jen’s bed. But at the very least Jen wants to get dinner somewhere besides the dining hall, so she goes ahead and showers, dries her hair, and changes into jeans and this plaid button up Jen cut the sleeves off of last year so she could keep wearing it in the summer. 

By six, she’s been dressed and ready to go to dinner for half an hour, Judy still isn’t back, and Jen’s mood is starting to turn. 

Typically, she doesn’t give much of a shit about her birthday. There have been too many years watching her mother tire herself out with desperate effort to make the day fun – an effort that failed far too often. _Twice_ , when Jen turned ten and thirteen, her mom was literally in the fucking hospital and still insisted on celebrating. There was something humiliating about being sung to while standing next to a heart monitor, eating grocery store sheet cake with technicolor icing. Her mom couldn’t even have a piece because she’d just had surgery. 

Anyway. Jen’s official stance is that celebrating a birthday is rarely worth the hassle. It was more important to her parents than to her; she’s always thought she’d be fine quietly accepting a gift from them and skipping any other acknowledgement. 

Yet for some reason, Jen is beginning to get irrationally annoyed at the fact that the whole day, save for the uncharacteristic familial phone calls, has been completely normal. 

Jen kicks off her Chucks, since apparently she’s not going anywhere anytime soon. She walks to the stereo and starts fast forwarding through mixtapes, looking for something angry and sullen to have playing when Judy comes in, but she’s yet to land on anything when the door swings open and Judy bursts inside, flushed and bright eyed. 

“Hey! Happy birthday!” 

Jen doesn’t thank her. “Where have _you_ been?” 

“Getting your gift…hold on.” Judy goes to her desk and turns away from Jen, taking something out of her purse and hiding it. She opens a drawer and pulls out a roll of Scotch tape, glancing at Jen over her shoulder while she does. “You need to change clothes.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Jen says dryly, but her bad mood is already evaporating. “Your outfit sucks, too.” 

Judy pauses whatever she’s doing to inspect her own dress before giving Jen a wounded look. “It does?”

Jen rolls her eyes, smirking. “ _No_. But why do I have to change?” 

“Because…” Judy’s back is to her again. “We….” Judy’s hands are busy, doing something with the tape. “Are going…” 

This pause is the longest yet, but finally Judy spins around and announces grandly, “...to the _theat-uh_.” 

Triumphant, she hands Jen an envelope, a ribbon tied into a bow and taped to the front. Jen takes it but doesn’t open it; she can feel a slow smile getting started, threatening to take over her whole face. “Are you serious? Like, tonight?” 

Judy nods, beaming. “I skipped my afternoon classes and went to the discount ticket booth you told me about. I really wanted to get in line earlier, so there were more show options, but I had that Spanish quiz this morning – “

"Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Jen assures her. “There are some tickets they don’t even get until later in the day…what are we seeing?” 

Judy’s smile turns mysterious. “Open it.” 

Eager, Jen tears open the envelope, pulling out two tickets….

To _Cats_.

“Oh... _wow…_ ” Jen exhales, struggling to control her facial expression.

“So they also had good seats for _Phantom_ and _Damn Yankees_ but I knew you’d seen those already. If we didn’t want, like, back of the balcony it was between _Cats_ and _Les Miserables_. The guy working there was really nice about answering questions, and he said _Cats_ was a much more dancey show? So I figured that was the best way to choose…” For just a second, doubt streaks across Judy’s expression. “You _haven’t_ seen it, right?” 

“I have not,” Jen says diplomatically, not adding that _Cats_ has been one of the most famous shows on Broadway since she was four years old; never going to see it was a _choice_. 

But it’s sweet, and entirely unsurprising, that Judy put so much thought into Jen’s birthday, apparently even remembering the extensive list of shows Jen has seen. They had that conversation the first fucking night they met.

Jen’s voice warms. “I’ve heard the dancing is supposed to be really incredible...and it’s been over a year since I’ve even been to a show, so this is...it’s honestly perfect. Thank you.” In the second before Jen hugs her, Judy’s eyes flare, happy and surprised. 

“You’re welcome.” Judy hugs her back for a moment, then adds without letting go, “Oh, and the show’s at eight.” 

“Shit.” Jen pulls back and checks the clock. “Okay, I really do have to change.” 

They get ready quickly, 10,000 Maniacs on the stereo, a better fit for this moment than Jen’s short lived foul mood. Jen pulls out the Fireball before they leave and insists they do a shot; privately, Jen has the feeling a performance of _Cats_ can only be improved by alcohol consumption. 

“To your birthday!” Judy lifts one of their Empire State Building shot glasses, the only one of her tourist spot souvenirs that has Jen’s approval.

“And your first Broadway show,” Jen adds, the unfortunate truth of that hitting her as soon as she says it. She tosses back the shot to cover a grimace.

Soon they’re ducking into a taxi and riding to the Winter Garden Theater. Jen’s warm from cinnamon whiskey and the way Judy’s lilting against her in the backseat, the two of them crowded close even though there could be a middle seat between them. 

They’re early enough that there’s still a crowd in the theater lobby. It includes a lot of families with kids as Jen expected, but there are a surprising amount of adult only groups gathered in the lobby with drinks. Jen considers ordering another round herself, but she’s never used a fake ID at a theater and it feels weirdly like a kind of sacrilege, not to mention a risk – she doesn’t want to get them banned from New York City theaters, permanently. Bad enough Judy’s _first_ Broadway show is going to be _Cats_...it can’t be the only one she ever sees. 

Jen navigates them through the lobby, looking for the right entrance for their seats. The crowd is particularly thick around the merch stands, people trying to buy _Cats_ sweatshirts and mugs even though they presumably haven’t seen the show yet. Jen feels Judy clutching the back of her leather jacket like a little kid, so she reaches back and grabs her hand, leading her purposefully through the crowd. She lets go once they’re in the house, an usher pointing them to the correct row.

Their seats are good, halfway back in the right hand orchestra section – relatively cheap, unsold orchestra seats are usually what makes the discount booth’s ‘day of sales’ policy worth it – but they’re also aisle seats, and Jen feels dread drop heavy into her stomach because, oh yeah, the cats in _Cats_ come into the fucking audience. 

She makes Judy take the actual aisle seat, then listens in patient amusement while Judy reads every single actor biography in the Playbill out loud, deeply impressed with the cast's collective resume. Then the lights go down and the overture starts and cat eyes start flashing in the aisles; abruptly, Jen changes her mind and nudges her shoulder into Judy’s. 

“Switch seats with me,” she whispers, low and urgent. Judy gives her a puzzled look but complies immediately, standing up as they awkwardly shuffle until Jen’s the one on the aisle – it had belatedly occurred to her that Judy could be a magnet for audience participation. 

This way, Jen’s the one tensing up every time the monstrosities roam the aisles, which happens a lot in the first few songs, licking their ‘paws’ and pretending to sit on the laps of audience members. It’s a balancing act: eye contact might draw one of the actors over, but being too obvious about _avoiding_ eye contact could have the same result, like a haunted house worker going after the most visibly scared person in a group.

Mostly, Jen sneaks frequent looks at Judy, trying to gauge her reaction to the show before them. Jen’s already mentally wrestling with what to say when the show is over, torn between being unambiguously appreciative of her birthday gift and making sure Judy knows that most Broadway musicals aren’t like... _this_.

It’s hard to read Judy’s face in the dark of theater, especially once the initial, understandable awe at the sheer spectacle fades. But somewhere close to the halfway point of the first act, when the cats are singing about a “remarkably fat” cat named Bustopher Jones and Jen’s Fireball buzz has tragically deserted her, she hears a soft, choked sound beside her.

Jen glances sideways to find Judy with her lips curled together, smothering laughter that’s dancing through her eyes instead. 

As soon as they make eye contact, Jen’s done for; she has to physically clamp a hand to her mouth to keep quiet, a feat that only proves more challenging when Judy leans close and says under her breath, “Why is he the only one wearing clothes?” 

It takes a second before Jen can answer. “Cause he’s fuckin’ _fancy_.” 

They’re like that for the rest of act one, the show suddenly a comedy and their amusement fueling each other. A particular line will send Judy’s gaze darting sideways or Jen’s elbow nudging against Judy’s and right away they’re trying not to crack up. 

Finally, the act break comes and they’re already laughing – finally, _finally_ out loud – when the applause fades and the lights go up. A woman sitting a few seats further into their row gives them a judgmental glare when she slides by to go the lobby, which makes the whole thing even funnier to Jen...imagine caring about the respect shown to fucking _Cats_. 

“Uh, should I maybe apologize?” Judy asks eventually, still breathless and giggly. 

“ _Fuck_ no,” Jen says vehemently. “This is...an experience.”

“Did you know it was like this?” 

“Kind of? But mostly, I could not have fucking imagined.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, contemplating all they’ve seen, when suddenly Judy grins. “I’m getting us T-shirts.” 

“Are you serious?” Jen asks. Judy’s already up, stepping over Jen’s knees into the aisle. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I just feel like we need them.” 

“Fine, just...make sure you’re back in your seat in time. If you’re in the aisles when the cats come back you might end up kidnapped and taken to the junkyard.” 

“Pretty sure you mean _catnapped."_

Jen groans theatrically. “ _No_. Get away from me.” 

Judy’s still giggling at her own pun when she walks off. 

Fifteen minutes later, the lights have dimmed and the actors are already roaming the house. Jen’s pretending to peruse her Playbill when she hears Judy’s voice, greeting someone with an uncertain, “Hi…?” 

Jen twists around and her seat and sees a cat actor on their hands and knees in the aisle, rubbing against Judy’s shins. She meets Jen’s eyes, helpless. Jen gestures aggressively for her to keep walking. 

She does, stepping around the cat and hurrying back to their seats looking like she just narrowly escaped danger. She drops a soft black T-shirt in Jen’s lap. “Happy birthday.” 

Jen unfolds it; there’s the huge title logo and an alarming pair of yellow eyes. “Only one?” 

Judy makes a face. The orchestra starts up again, and she leans close and lowers her voice. “It was like twenty-five bucks. I never wear T-shirts anyway.” 

“We can share it,” Jen murmurs back. “ _Really_ don’t need that to just be a thing I own.” 

The second act is more of the same. Jen and Judy end up slouched low in their seats, hands steepled across their faces ready to muffle increasingly frequent laughter. A stretch of songs pass without any of the cats leaping past the fourth wall into the audience, and Jen relaxes, thinking they’re in the clear...so of _course_ as soon as it happens again, in one of the last few songs, one of the actors ends up crouched beside her in the aisle.

“Better not fuckin' touch me,” Jen mutters through gritted teeth, loud enough to be heard, and Judy starts laughing so hard she has to turn her face into Jen’s shoulder for the rest of the song.

+

There’s a diner within walking distance from the theater, the kind with fifties decor and quarter jukeboxes at every table. Jen pulls the _Cats_ T-shirt on over her dress, half as a joke and half because she feels overly formal in her thin strapped black dress sitting in a booth that looks like a baby blue Ford Thunderbird. 

They order waffles and rehash the show between leftover fits of laughter. 

“Some of the dancing _was_ actually really good.” 

“Oh, good.” Judy looks relieved. “I thought a lot of it was cool, but I didn’t want to say so in case that made me seem too easily impressed.” 

“No, you’re completely right to be impressed. The dancing was good. Shit, the _singing_ was good, but it’s just...the _songs_.”

“Okay, some of the songs were kinda catchy – “

“Is that why you were humming the magician one the whole walk here?” 

“Magical Mr. Mistoffelees.” 

“Wow, you know the title?” 

“They say it like twenty times!” 

“Judy. Holy shit. You loved it.” 

“I did _not_ – “

“You _so_ did! You. Loved. _Cats_.” 

“ _No_. I _did_ love the time I spent watching _Cats_.” 

“ _Cats_ is your favorite Broadway show.” 

“Okay, that’s true –“ 

“Oh my _God_.” 

“– but it is also my _least_ favorite Broadway show.” 

“This is unacceptable to me.” 

“Uh, you’re the one wearing a _Cats_ shirt.” 

“Purchased by _whom_?” 

“Ooh _whom_. So grammatical.” 

“I just, I can’t even look at you.”

Jen rests her elbows on the table and covers her eyes. 

Judy starts humming ‘Magical Mr. Mistofflees.’

Jen uncovers her eyes, holds up both middle fingers, then starts digging in her purse. “Please _God_ let me have a quarter…” 

She finds a few among the pile of loose change that’s settled into the corner of her bag and feeds it into the jukebox. Judy stops humming and leans forward so she can see the song list as Jen pages through. Despite the ostensible fifties theme, the music selection favors the sixties and seventies. 

“You can pick,” Jen finally says when she’s flipped through each page twice. “I don’t care as long as it stops the fuckin reprise.”

Judy’s smile tilts, turns mischievous, and she reaches for the arrow buttons like she knows exactly what page she’s looking for. She stops at the E’s and punches the numbers for “Tiny Dancer.” 

Jen just rolls her eyes, biting back a smile. 

“Here.” Judy pulls one of the massive menus from behind the jukebox, opening it to the dessert section before passing it across the table to Jen. “We gotta do birthday cake.”

Jen glances down at her plate, cleared of everything but sticky syrup residue. “Aren’t waffles _basically_ cake?” 

Judy gives her a stern look. “Just because there’s whip cream on something, that _doesn’t_ make it a dessert. C’mon, you gotta have a favorite.” 

“I’m not really a cake person.” 

“Okay...but what are your feelings on pie?” 

They order two slices of cherry à la mode. When the waitress brings them, Judy smiles up at her. “Thanks so much – ” There’s the slightest pause, like Judy’s double checking the waitress’s name tag. “– Donna. Oh, do you happen to have any birthday candles?” 

Donna, apparently, is one of those grizzled, career Manhattan waitresses decades past being charmed by a sweet smile and the use of her first name. She just gives Judy a narrow look and huffs, “Candles don’t come with the pie.” 

Judy’s smile dims, and Jen quickly gets her attention. “Hey. Listen.” 

She watches Judy’s face, sees the moment she realizes Elton John is crooning over the speakers. “Hey, good timing.” 

“Yeah. Better than Happy Birthday….or fucking _anything_ from _Cats_.” 

Judy laughs, but stops abruptly when Jen digs a fork into the pie. “Wait, hold on, we can still do the wish...” 

Jen starts to protest but thinks better of it – Judy is unlikely to be deterred no matter what she says. She’s currently rummaging through her bag, and after a few moments emerges with her lighter and satisfied grin. 

“Alright, here…” She flicks the wheel and holds the flame steady, carefully extending it across the table, a few inches from Jen’s face.

“You realize you look like you’re gonna torch the place.” 

“Then blow it out _quickly_.” 

Jen rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. She holds Judy’s eyes and draws a breath, then releases it in a thin gust. Between them, the flame extinguishes, leaving behind only a faint scent of lighter fluid and wishes.

+

Back in the dorm, they check the basement and the seventh floor common room, but there are already people watching the televisions, so Jen steals a deck of cards from the basement’s board game shelf and takes it back to their room. They sit on Jen’s yoga mat, set up between their beds, the bottle of Fireball open on the floor between them while they play increasingly tipsy games of rummy and speed. Jen’s still wearing the _Cats_ T-shirt with a yellow pair of Soffe shorts that, as Judy points out, nicely match the creepy cat eyes. Judy had exchanged her paisley maxi dess for a tank top and her usual silk pajama pants.

It’s after two am when they finally abandon the booze and the cards, leaving them on the floor until morning. Judy has a small reading light clipped to her headboard, for when she has to study after Jen goes to bed, and it’s always the last light on in their room at night. 

Judy waits until Jen’s in bed under the covers to ask, “Okay if I turn this off?” 

“Yeah, you’re good.” The room goes dark and Jen turns on her side, settling onto her pillow. “Goodnight.” 

“Night. Happy birthday.” 

“Yeah, you, too.” 

“Um. Thanks?”

“No. I don’t know. I’m drunk.” 

“It’s okay. It was a pretty happy day for me, too.”

“That's good,” Jen murmurs. She smiles into the dark, feeling warm and happy and eighteen. 

+

Judy works day shifts on Saturdays, and she’s getting dressed to go to the restaurant when Jen comes back to their room after a very hungover training session in the studio. 

“What time are you heading home?” Judy asks while she buttons her shirt.

“Soon, I guess.” Jen slides a few cassette tapes over, making room to perch on top of her desk. “Just gotta shower and change.”

Judy glances up and throws her a smile. “It’s so nice you get to see your parents so often.”

Jen makes a noncommittal humming sound that could probably be construed as an agreement. It’s not the first offhanded comment Judy’s made that suggests an assumption that Jen visits home more than she does. 

Her parents hadn’t seemed to mind that she didn’t come home over fall break, but there was little chance of her getting out of a family birthday dinner. She’s lucky they didn’t insist on the actual day. 

Jen changes the subject. “Did you figure out a costume?” 

Judy grimaces. “Not yet. Gonna have to brainstorm during my shift.” 

She’s going to a Halloween party tonight, at one of the on campus apartment buildings populated largely by juniors and seniors, with some of her friends from her introductory drawing class. Apparently not realizing that intense Halloween celebrations are all but expected in college, she isn’t prepared with a costume.

“If I don’t come up with anything in the next seven hours, can I borrow one of your leotards?” 

Jen arches an eyebrow. “You’re gonna go to the party as me?” 

Judy laughs. “I was thinking just a generic dancer, but maybe that’s better.” 

“Borrow whatever you want, but is _dancer_ really a costume?” 

“For _me_ it would be.” Judy finishes tying her shoes and stands up from her desk chair. “It’s just a backup plan...maybe I’ll swing by the art studio after work. See if there’s anything I can craft with.” 

“Hey.” Jen kicks gently at Judy’s shin. “Be careful tonight. Especially if you end up going off campus…people here can get fucking crazy on Halloween.” 

Judy smiles gratefully. “I will, but I’m pretty sure we’ll just stay at the party. It’s supposed to be a pretty big deal, like every year they throw a big blow out with a different theme. This year it’s Heaven and Hell.” 

“So...wouldn’t that mean the only costumes are, like, angels and devils?” 

“Veronica and Eli said the theme doesn’t extend to costumes.” 

“Then what the fuck’s the point of a theme?” 

“No idea. I thought _Halloween_ was enough of a theme.” She glances at the clock. “Shit, I’m almost late. Have fun with your parents!”

“Mmm. Have fun at your party...if you see any unopened booze, hide it and bring it back at the end of the night.” 

Judy grins with her eyebrows arching. “So that’s just our general policy now?” 

“I strongly believe it should be.” 

“Seconded. I’ll see what I can find.” 

Once Judy’s gone, Jen takes her time getting showered and changed before heading to the subway station. Her parents live in Bensonhurst, and Jen’s dad offered to pick her up at the station but she hadn’t wanted to be tied down to a firm arrival time, so she follows twenty minutes on the train with a bus ride that drops her off a couple blocks from her street. She gets coffee nearby, from one of her usual places, before walking the familiar route to her house. The residential streets in this area all look alike, brick townhouses built close together with tiny patches of grass that barely qualify as yards. Most have Halloween decorations up — pumpkins crowding front stoops, fake cobwebs stretched across windows, plastic ghosts or skeletons dangling from tree limbs. 

Her parents made dinner reservations at seven at Jen’s favorite restaurant, the go-to pick for their family’s rare, special occasion dinners out. Her mom has a chemo appointment in two days, on Monday, so she’s in the easiest part of her post-treatment cycle and should be feeling relatively decent. Jen arrives with a few hours to kill at home before they head to dinner, but she had guessed, correctly, that her mom would be extremely amused to hear Jen finally saw _Cats_ , and her descriptions of the show carry them through a half hour of conversation. She can tell her mom loves that Judy got the tickets for her; she probably hadn’t expected Jen to get along with her randomly assigned art major roommate anymore than Jen herself did. 

After that, her mom wants to hear about her dance classes and dance instructors in more detail than Jen’s offered over the phone. Her mother had gained an odd celebrity status at Jen’s old dance studio; Jen being a clear star in such an environment might have provoked a chilly respect in other circumstances, but instead her ever present “battle” with cancer made her beloved and admired by the other dance moms. When she missed a recital, there was always someone offering to copy their home videos, someone who made sure they filmed all of Jen’s performances as well as their own kid’s, someone who would hand over the tapes along with gushing praises. Her mother can (and often does) rattle off every adjective anyone ever used to describe Jen’s dancing to her. She probably misses adding to that list. 

Later at dinner, Jen pretty much has to repeat all her descriptions of classes and teachers and campus life for her grandparents on her dad’s side, who live close by and meet them at the restaurant. Her grandfather tells the waiter it’s Jen’s birthday, which he always does even when she insists she doesn’t want to be sung to by waiters and waitresses. She suffers through it, wondering idly if Judy’s restaurant is too fancy for birthday singing or if she has to participate in this kind of reluctant waitstaff chorales. Judy wouldn’t be reluctant, though; she’d probably delight in the chance to assist in someone’s celebration. Jen thinks about last night, Judy so dedicated to birthday rituals that she made Jen wish on her lighter, and smirks to herself. This leads to a crack from her dad about how for once she isn’t rolling her eyes through the whole song, maybe eighteen really does mean maturity, ha ha ha. 

From the moment they’d planned this dinner, her parents had been talking as though she’d obviously stay the night, but when they get home from the restaurant, Jen tells them she wants to go back to campus. Her father seems irritated, like he’s gearing up to argue, but her excuse – “It’s Halloween weekend. My friends are all going to parties.” – wins her mom to her side. It’s always been important to her that Jen makes time with friends.

There are a few things she has to grab from her bedroom – including her Playbill collection, she’ll make Judy help her hang them tomorrow – and then her dad drives her to the subway station. Jen is tense the whole drive, the same tension that’s been knotting her up since she got here: she’s waiting for a cancer briefing. There’s no regularity to these periodic updates, but they usually seem to come when there’s some piece of bad news. 

Turns out she’s safe tonight, though; her dad drops her off at the station with only a few safety axioms against leaving drinks unattended and taking the subway alone after ten pm. 

Judy’s already gone when Jen gets back to the dorm. There’s a whiteboard message from Matthew, who also lives in Franklin Hall, three floors above Jen and Judy, telling Jen about a costume night at Aces & Eights, a saloon style bar near campus. According to Matthew’s neatly Sharpied message, they’re meeting up in Audrey’s room again before going out and Jen should COME!!!, but she’s already decided to try to find Judy at the Heaven & Hell party and see what kind of last minute costume she managed to cobble together.

Jen doesn’t have a costume, but she does swap her ‘nice’ jeans for her favorite worn, well ripped pair and touches up her makeup so it’s heavier than before. 

She knows the party is in Gramley Tower, the same on campus apartment where Jen attended a dance major heavy gathering last month, but has no idea of the apartment number, or even what floor it’s on. She doesn’t have to hover long outside the building until a costumed group of two Ninja Turtles, a Batman and Catwoman couple, Carmen Sandiego, and a generic witch shows up. Jen follows them inside and onto the elevator, then off at the fifth floor. She doesn’t have to wonder if their party is the same as Judy’s; the “Heaven & Hell” theme turns out to refer to the two apartments, directly across from each other, that are co-hosting the party. People spill freely into the hallway, moving between the two doorways, one of which is decorated with cotton ball clouds and white paper intricately cut to make pearly gates, while the other is surrounded by construction paper flames.

The group Jen was stalking heads through the door to Heaven, so Jen veers into the Hell half of the party. There are red bulbs screwed into every light fixture, giving the room an eerie neon glow and making it difficult for Jen to pick out potentially familiar faces. The costumes, many of them with accompanying masks, aren’t helping matters. She has a passing familiarity with at least _some_ of the people Judy hangs out with, but she’s no longer confident she’ll be able to find them in this crowd, so she focuses on scanning the rooms for Judy, specifically, wishing she knew what she ended up wearing. After ten minutes of maneuvering around and through games of flip cup and clusters of dancing, Jen crosses the hall to the other side of the party. 

Save for the decor – white balloons forming a layer below the ceiling, and white silk draped between lamps to mute the lighting – the party’s Heavenly half is just as hedonistic as Hell: drinking games in progress on every available flat surface, the living room hazy with cigarette smoke and pulsing to the bassline of loud, uncensored hip hop.

Jen tries to stay in one place and methodically scan the crowd, but the living room is crammed full and poorly lit, and Judy’s so fucking _short_ it’s probably far too easy for her to get swallowed up in the crowd. 

When Jen’s been at this party for twenty minutes and is grinding her teeth out of frustration and maybe, possibly a little bit of worry, she finally sees a guy in a minimal costume – red and white striped sweater and a red beanie – she recognizes as one of Judy’s art friends. He doesn’t live in their dorm, but he eats in Franklin’s dining hall sometimes with friends, and usually stops by their table to chat. Jen’s been introduced, but she doesn’t remember his name. 

“Hey.” 

He’s heading for the kitchen, so Jen has to reach out and pull on his sleeve to get him to turn around. He smiles at her when he does, looking pleased at the attention. “Hi.” 

Jen scowls and lets go of him abruptly. “Have you seen Judy around? Judy Hale?”

It takes a second, but then the guy seems to recognize her. “Oh. Yeah, I saw her a little while ago...she was smoking with Eli and those guys in one of the bedrooms. Might’ve been over in the Hell apartment?”

Jen doesn’t thank him, just turns without another word and heads back the fuck across the hall. She should have at least been drinking while she looked – almost half an hour wasted and she’s not even buzzed. 

She hadn’t checked behind the closed doors in the hallway during her earlier search, but Jen doesn’t even make it across the Hell apartment’s living room before Jen hears her name, called out above the sound of Mary J. Blige, blasting through a stereo system. She turns around to see Judy, slipping expertly between knots of people and beaming at her. 

“Hey!” Judy throws her arms around Jen, possibly playing up the dramatics, possibly just stoned enough to mean them. “You didn’t say you were coming!” Judy pulls back but keeps holding onto Jen’s arms. “I thought you were staying in Brooklyn?” 

“I was, but. You know. Couldn’t miss _Halloween_.” 

Judy’s head tilts quizzically. “You’re not even wearing a costume.” 

“Speaking of…” Jen arches an eyebrow and fully takes in Judy’s outfit. “Please tell me you’re not a fucking cat because of _Cats_.”

She’s wearing one of Jen’s plain black leotards with black tights and black boots. Her nose is pink, with black whiskers drawn on her cheeks, and she’s wearing a headband with cat ears, along with a choker fashioned to look like a collar. 

“Might have been _inspired_ by Cats,” Judy admits with a grin. “I told you I needed an idea....c’mere. We can improvise.” She takes Jen’s hand and tugs her in the direction of the hallway. It’s only then that Jen notices her ensemble also includes a tail, black and fuzzy and somehow curving up, parallel to Judy’s spine. 

They stop in one of the bedrooms that’s been turned into a coat closet and general storage space, where Judy pulls her purse out of a pile on the bed, then get in a line that’s snaking down the hallway, people standing in groups as they wait for the bathroom. Judy hands Jen her drink, still halfway full with whiskey and flat Diet Coke, tells her she can finish it if she wants. She does.

“What are we doing exactly?” Jen asks after she’s taken a sip.

“You need a costume,” Judy answers, like it’s obvious. “I mean, you look great, but not at all Halloweeny.”

“You have a back up in there?” Jen asks, skeptically eyeing Judy’s oversized purse.

“No, but we can share this one.” 

Jen grimaces. “What, like when two people share a horse costume? Are you gonna make me be the ass of a cat?” 

Judy laughs pretty hard at that suggestion, but she doesn’t say Jen is wrong. 

The line finally snakes into another bedroom. There are two girls and three guys squeezed onto the bed, passing a joint around and not paying any attention to the people waiting for the bathroom. Four girls go in at once before Jen and Judy, and they’re in there for like ten minutes before finally emerging. Jen follows Judy into the bathroom and locks the door. 

“Here.” Judy takes off her headband with the cat ears and gently settles it onto Jen’s head. “You need this more than I do….I’ve got the tail.” 

“How’d you make that by the way?” There’s a curl at the end Jen hadn’t noticed before. 

“Took some wire from a supply closet in the art building.” Judy’s digging through her purse, and after a second pulls out an eyeliner pencil. “Good thing I brought this for touch ups....here, I’ll give you whiskers.”

Jen leans back against the sink, slouching her posture the slightest bit so she and Judy are eye to eye. 

“Hold still...” Judy must not trust Jen to follow the direction, because she places her fingers along Jen’s jaw, holding her steady while the other hand begins drawing careful, ticklish lines on Jen’s cheek.

It’s bright in the bathroom, especially after the red glowing dark of the party. Judy’s wearing more makeup than usual, and up close, her eyes look lighter; copper tinted. Jen can smell weed and whiskey on her breath. She adjusts her hands to draw on Jen’s other cheek, and that’s when Jen notices a phone number, written in blue ink on the back of Judy’s hand. Jen doesn’t ask about it. 

“I didn’t bring the pink lipstick,” Judy tells Jen regretfully. “But I guess your nose can match the whiskers...” 

She touches the point of the eyeliner against the tip of Jen’s nose, and Jen has to fight not to scrunch it in reflexive protest. 

“There. Three minute cat costume.” Judy backs away a few inches, studying her work. Her face splits into a grin. “Only _we’ll_ know you’re actually Mr. Mistoffelees.” 

“Nope, I’m out.” Jen plays like she’s going to rub off the eyeliner whiskers.

“ _Don’t_ , you look so cute!” Judy catches Jen’s hands, tugging them away from her face. 

Jen smirks. “So which fuckin’ _Cats_ cat are you?” 

Judy doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’m Skimbleshakes.” 

Jen chokes on a laugh, narrowing skeptical eyes at Judy.

“It’s layered!”

Jen straightens up and turns to the mirror, checking her face for the first time. “Nice job.” She grins at Judy’s reflection. “Couldn’t even tell you did it drunk.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Judy protests. “I’m actually more high than drunk.” 

“I can tell.” Jen lightly hip checks her as she turns around. “Plus that guy told me you were in one of the bedrooms smoking.” 

“What guy?”

“I don’t know, what’s his ass, he has a class with you…” Unsurprisingly, this information doesn’t seem to help. “I’m not sure what his costume was, he had on a red striped sweater?” 

“That’s Dylan. He’s dressed as the guy from Where’s Waldo?” 

Jen blinks at her. “So… _Waldo_.” 

“Oh, right. That makes sense.” 

They leave behind the well lit quiet of the bathroom and set about getting drinks. Jen thinks idly that the kitchens at parties are always the same: crowded counters and sticky tile floors, abandoned shot glasses and two liter soda bottles with the last inch or two of backwash left behind. Jen pulls a plastic cup out of the comically large but still mostly emptied out package, adding a few splashes of vodka and knocking it back like a shot before she even tries to find a mixer. 

Judy wants to introduce Jen to her friends, so they track down a clump of art majors crammed onto the Hell apartment’s narrow balcony, where a guy dressed as Bart Simpson is making a slurred but passionate case for Kurt Cobain’s death not being a suicide. This turns out to be Judy’s friend Eli, but by the time Jen is introduced she’s already halfway to hating him. 

None of the dozen or so people she meets over the next hour fare much better; the more she listens to them, the more certain Jen gets that Judy is the sole UNY art major who isn’t completely fucking insufferable. 

Granted, Jen isn’t putting much conversational effort into getting to know them, but they seem to prefer it that way. The Kurt Cobain Homicide Conspiracy is one of many rambling speeches she hears over the course of the night. Whether they’re describing their current “mixed media” project about their parents divorce or insisting that, from the perspective of cows and pigs and chickens, all meat eating humans are comparable to Hitler, it feels like they’re all just waiting for their turn to speak. 

Judy, though, makes for a perfect audience. Jen’s almost embarrassed, watching her – so attentive and enthusiastic, like they aren’t just spewing drunken bullshit, like they show even a fraction of that interest in anything she has to say. One of the few times she does say something other than an affirmation or question, she’s just introduced Jen to a girl from her drawing class and is telling her that they saw _Cats_ last night; Judy doesn’t seem to pick up on the condescension in the girl’s simpering, “That’s so adorable.” response; that girl is similarly patronizing when explaining her costume to them; she’s a _Freudian slip_ , apparently, and it’s all Jen can do not to roll her eyes – fucking _genius,_ Veronica, finding a way to be as pretentious as possible while showing up to a party in nothing but a neglige.

By two in the morning, Jen’s patience is shredded thin and she’s maybe three sips of vodka away from picking a pointless fight with strangers. She isn’t really expecting Judy to leave with her when she pulls the _I’m getting tired_ excuse, but it’s nice that she does.

Heading back to their dorm, there are still plenty of costumed groups in sight, in that odd time of night where they could be going out _or_ going home, but compared to the party, the walk back offers a welcome calm and quiet. Judy lights a cigarette, and after she inhales Jen reaches over and takes it from between her lips – she’d dumped her own pack of American Spirits from her purse before seeing her parents, just to be safe, and forgotten to grab it before the party. Judy grins at her when she takes it back, and for the next block they share, ringing the cigarette with two different shades of red.

“Did you have fun?” Judy asks eventually, glancing sidelong at Jen when it’s her turn to smoke. Before she can reply, Judy answers the question herself, apology laced through her voice. “You didn’t have fun.”

Jen hesitates, buying herself time with a slow, lazy exhale. “It was fine,” she says finally. “I think I was just too many hours behind on the drinking. No one wants to be the least fucked up person at a party.” 

“Yeah that’s no fun…” Judy takes the proffered cigarette from Jen “How was dinner with your parents, by the way?” 

“It was fine. Good,” she amends immediately. “My grandparents came, they just asked nonstop questions about school...my grandma still knows _nothing_ about dance, but she thinks she’s an expert just from seeing enough recitals.”

“Your grandparents live in Brooklyn, too?”

“Yeah, literally like a ten minute bike ride from our house...ten minutes when I was like _seven_.” 

“I didn’t know that...that’s so cool.” 

Jen looks over at her. “What about you? You have other family in California, or…?”

“Oh, no, it’s just me and my mom.”

Jen’s quiet for a moment. She’s thinking about those assholes at the party, preening under Judy’s attention, answering her questions without asking any of their own. Jen doesn’t want to be like that, and she’s trying to think of something else to ask when suddenly Judy sidles unexpectedly close, lilting into Jen’s side with an ostentatious, full body shudder.

“It got _cold_ ,” she declares, like such a thing is a mystifying concept. “I can’t believe this all you wear walking around campus.” 

“I’m not usually walking around in just a fuckin’ leotard and tights in the middle of the night...especially when it’s practically November.” She laughs a little and adds, half teasing, “You want my jacket? Was that a hint?” 

“ _No_ ,” Judy protests, eyes widening. She looks pointedly at Jen’s outfit, the tank top under her leather jacket. “You don’t have sleeves either.” 

“But I’m at least wearing _pants_.” Jen shrugs one arm out of its sleeve. “Here, you gave me your cat ears, it’s only fair.”

“Stop, I’m fine, I swear!” Laughing, Judy shrugs away from her. Jen grabs her hand for a second, plays like she's tugging her back. Judy slips out of her grasp, leaving a streak of blue ink on Jen's fingers. She steps close to Judy again, catches a glimpse of the source: the phone number scrawled on Judy's hand, now smeared past recognition. Jen still doesn't say anything about it, just grins and pulls off the other sleeve her jacket before tossing it to Judy. 

Judy raises her hands and backs away, lets the jacket fall to the ground.

"Great," Jen says. "Now my jacket's dirty and we're _both_ gonna be cold."

“Only one option, then...body heat," Judy jokes, eyes gleaming with amusement as she huddles close to Jen. "We’re almost home, anyway.” 

Jen smiles; it’s sort of sweet that Judy always refers to the dorm as _home_. It sounded off to Jen at first – like the word doesn’t fit a single room in a building full of strangers with identical furniture – but not anymore. Lately, it feels closer to being true. 

+

It should be a good thing, that Judy is friends with so many different groups; the art crowd is unlikely to grow on Jen, but there are other options. 

Actual Halloween falls on a Tuesday, and after dinner Jen and Judy walk a block to Sixth Avenue, sipping from Diet Coke bottles with a splash of whiskey and watching the Village Halloween parade with a couple girls from Judy’s Spanish class who live in their dorm, plus various roommates and friends that Judy also seems to know. When the costumed procession starts to thin out, Jen agrees to go back to someone’s room and watch _Pet Sematary_. It turns into a drinking game with poorly defined rules, everyone shouting over each other the whole movie, none of them nearly as funny as they’re trying to be. Judy doesn’t even like horror movies, so the night is entirely a waste of time.

Jen tries a few more times, joining Judy at a Friday game night hosted by some guy in her Art History class, then a Saturday night at a club with a group of mostly sophomores Judy seems to have met completely at random, no common class or major or dorm building offered to explain the connection. 

Spending time with Judy’s friends feels like a tedious prerequisite class. Jen suffers through it at first, knowing that once it’s over she’ll get to the only part of the night she enjoys: being back in the dorm, hanging out with Judy on her own. While the art kids guzzle Zima, Jen’s mouth waters for Entemann’s cookies and room-temperature booze. While they monologue and marvel at each other, Jen makes mental notes of bizarre comments to laugh about later with Judy in the safety of their dorm

Jen’s never been clingy. She wants to be the cool, detached friend who can enjoy herself anywhere Judy brings her. But she doesn’t actually like any of Judy’s friends – seriously, not _one_ of them – and while Jen would be fine talking only to Judy, that’s not usually an option. She starts to recognize a certain surge of irritation she gets watching Judy with other people. She already knows her roommate is unreasonably patient and indiscriminately friendly, but it’s more than that: Judy treats _everyone_ like they’re her best friend. 

No matter which group, no matter which activity – board games in a dorm room or vodka shots on a dance floor, it’s always the same: whoever manages to snag Judy’s attention at any given moment becomes the temporary center of her universe. She seems to find everyone endlessly hilarious, impressive, and interesting, and it’s completely fucking ridiculous. Ridiculous and _frustrating_. It’s impossible to tell who really matters to Judy, which of her dozens of friends she’s particularly close to.

After the nightclub, Jen finally decides to call it. If all she wants is the end of the night, that hour or so before bed with booze and cookies and Judy, there’s no reason she _has_ to participate in the rest of it. 

On the grounds that sitting alone in her dorm room every Friday and Saturday night waiting for her roommate to get home would be unacceptably pathetic, Jen starts socializing with her dance friends again, taking Audrey and Matthew up on their offers of sugar-free cocktails on crowded dance floors and group re-watches of taped Tony performances. 

They’re good distractions, but time-sensitive ones. Jen never leaves the dorm for the night without stating a clear time she’ll be back, knowing that Judy will also appear around then, cheeks pink and smile wide, ready to recount her night between sips of stolen alcohol. On the rare weekend night Judy doesn’t have plans, Jen finds a reason to cancel her own. 

The gross, unreasonable truth is that Jen wants it to be like fall break, all the time. She remembers it like a craving, those four lazy, warm days when it was just her and Judy, when it felt like the whole campus had been turned over and emptied out and there was no one else who mattered in the whole damn city. 

+

Judy knows it’s selfish, but with Thanksgiving approaching, she keeps catching herself thinking longingly of fall break. Jen leaves for Brooklyn on Tuesday afternoon, after classes end for the week. Judy knows that’s a good thing, that Jen _should_ get to go home and see her family for the holiday, so she’s careful not to let on how much she’s dreading it. 

It’s less than a week. She’s being silly. But there’s something so comforting about the certainty of Jen’s presence, knowing the dorm room is _theirs_ , guaranteed, this entire year. Even on Mondays and Wednesdays, when they see each other the least, Judy working late at the restaurant and Jen long asleep by the time she gets back….even then, it’s still nice to know exactly what she’s coming home to. Never an unexpectedly empty apartment, never a door plastered with eviction notices, never a social worker’s car in the driveway waiting to take her someplace new.

Always Jen. Jen and the soothing predictability of her routines – her commitment to a rigid, disciplined schedule means Jen is easy to find, easy to wait for. When Judy is in the room by herself, she usually knows where Jen is and when she’ll be back. It’s usually soon. 

Just not for the next five days. 

At _most_ five days. Probably, hopefully less – Jen kept saying she doubts she’ll stay in Brooklyn through the weekend, that she needs to get back to the studio. She didn’t seem to pack much, either, leaving for the subway station with only her purse and the pale pink duffle she carries to dance class. 

The anklet Judy made Jen over the summer is hooked on the bag’s zipper; she first noticed it there the week after Jen’s birthday, so Jen must have brought it back from her parents’ house along with the Playbill collection (which is now hung and displayed on the wall above Jen’s bed, artfully arranged like colorful tile) and a huge pack of double A batteries (their Walkmans really burn through them). 

Taking her cue from Jen, Judy hasn’t said anything about the anklet. But she checks that it’s still there, every day: as soon Jen bursts into the room and tosses her bag on the floor, Judy always seeks out the flash of pastel colors and, finding it, smiles to herself like a kid with a secret. 

Judy made herself one, too, with the same colors. She had been too embarrassed to wear it, before – when Jen never wrote back to her letter, Judy had assumed she’d messed it up in some way, said too much or tried too hard. It would have been even worse, to show up wearing the anklet like it’s a half heart necklace, demanding a match. But after a week passed with the anklet still dangling off Jen’s dance bag, Judy had rescued her own from the outside pocket of her suitcase and quietly slipped it onto her ankle with the others she pretty much never takes off.

It’s a little lonely, eating dinner on Tuesday night at the same time she’d usually be there with Jen, but it’s Judy’s last chance to snag some extra food for the rest of the week. It’s lucky the dining hall is still open for the night – it’s much emptier than it was the day before fall break, less than ten tables occupied in the expansive space – and even luckier the dorms themselves stay open. The month between semesters is the only time campus housing is officially closed (Judy’s already asked Shannon, her RA, if they ever make exceptions; apparently not). 

Judy ends up in the art studio after dinner, painting and listening to a mixtape of Jen’s, one of the few filled with softer, slower songs, Suzanne Vega’s voice a sparse and lovely accompaniment to Judy’s brushstrokes. It feels absurd, now, that Judy didn’t paint the first two months in New York. She’s been careful about saving her paychecks and tip money, but she’d finally dipped into a chunk of it to buy a new set of oils and a few quality canvases. 

Getting a brush back in her hand felt like getting a cast off, the welcome return of a limb, and Jen is the one who inspired it. Judy is awestruck by her roommate’s dedication, the way Jen is up and in the studio every morning, weekends and breaks included, not because there’s a required class or a waiting professor: she simply loves dancing enough to work hard at it. 

It really sunk in for Judy, watching Jen on fall break: no _wonder_ she’s so incredible. It makes Judy feel stupid, and even a little ashamed of herself, to realize she had been prepared to do nothing but sketch this semester, just because Fundamentals of Drawing is her only class in the department. She’s never had classes and assignments dictating her art before. 

So for the past month, Judy has been coming here a few nights a week, usually on Mondays and Wednesdays after her late shift – she doesn’t have class until eleven on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and she kind of loves the art studio that late at night, when its towering windows look out over a constellation of city lights and there’s almost never competition for the stereo. 

Tonight, Judy stays past three in the morning, getting happily lost in her brushstrokes and Jen’s music. She can sleep late tomorrow, nothing to do until her regular Wednesday night shift. She’s working Thursday, too – Judy hadn’t realized an Italian restaurant would even stay open on Thanksgiving, but when her manager, Claire, told her about the holiday pay rate and the tendency of customers to tip very well on Thanksgiving meals out, she’d eagerly volunteered for a double shift. With Christmas coming up, she can use the extra money, and it’s almost a relief to have somewhere to be on a holiday, even if it’s only for work.

When Wednesday evening rolls around, Judy’s more than ready to go to work; she slept until noon and still the day felt endless, nothing to do but watch TV in the empty common room and make some tentative attempts at studying. She’s glad to go to the restaurant, relieved to chat with customers and coworkers and snagging the occasional piece of garlic bread to snack on during a smoke break. 

The relief is completely wrung out of her by the end of her second shift on Thursday. There _is_ something warm and festive about the holiday atmosphere, and most of Judy’s customers seem extra kind and happy today – she waits on this completely adorable family, visiting the city from Nebraska, with an eight year old daughter who giddily informs Judy they have tickets for _Cats_ this weekend. Plus, the tips are fantastic; Judy tries to keep a running total, the growing number in her head like a trophy gleaming beyond a finish line, a much needed burst of energy.

Still, after thirteen hours, all Judy’s feeling is the ache in her feet and a bone deep exhaustion. The chill in the air keeps her awake on the walk home, just barely. Judy holds her eyes open, watching her breath fog in front of her like thin clouds. It’s been so cold at night lately, she keeps hoping for snow, but Jen says that doesn’t really start until December, sometimes even January. 

Taking the elevator to the seventh floor of Franklin Hall, Judy slumps against the wall, letting herself daydream about her bed now that she’s two minutes away from it. 

There’s music playing, loud, when Judy approaches the door, and she’s too out of it to think beyond _I must have left the stereo on_ , unlikely as that is, but then she pushes the door open and finds Jen sitting on her bed, looking expectantly at the door.

Judy’s wide awake all of a sudden, sparked by the little electrocution of delight that happens whenever she runs into Jen on campus between classes – it’s a rare and happy surprise, seeing her when Judy isn’t expecting it. 

“ _Hi_.” It comes out both a question and exclamation. “You’re back!” 

“Yeah, we ate fuckin' _hours_ ago. The holiday felt over. Oh!” Jen grins. “I brought leftovers. You’re not into turkey, I know, but everything else...it’s really good, my grandma’s the only one in our family who can actually cook. Your break rations are taking up our whole fridge so I put them in the one in the lounge.”

“That’s so nice.” While Jen was talking, Judy remembered that her feet and back hurt. She sits down on her desk chair, not trusting herself to give into the lure of her mattress, and starts pulling off her shoes. “I ate on break at work, but tomorrow – “

“– Thanksgiving lunch,” Jen finishes. “Belated. But also…” Jen’s smile tilts, turning it sly. “ _This_ we don’t have to wait for.” 

She slides to the foot of her bed so she can reach her dance bag, sitting on the desk – Judy checks for the anklet, sees it, hides a smile – and pulls out a bottle of wine. She holds it in one hand and gestures with the other, a Vanna White flourish. “I think it might actually be _good_ wine. Or at least wine that cost more than seven bucks.” 

“Ooh, _fancy._ Someone’s trying to get lucky.” Judy attempts to waggle her eyebrows, mock salacious. 

Jen rolls her eyes. “ _Yeah_ , exactly. I’m proposing a glass of wine and _Facts of Life_ reruns in a basement by candlelight….every girl’s dream date.” 

Jen’s voice is desert dry with sarcasm, but Judy thinks such a date sounds kind of nice. 

“You in?” Jen asks when Judy doesn’t immediately reply or get up to go to the basement. “First episode starts in like five minutes.” 

Judy hesitates; by now, she’s also remembered how tired she is. If she wanted, she could fall asleep right here, sitting up, in the desk chair, the room around her fully lit. Collapsing onto her bed and turning out the lights sounds even better.

But Jen came back, and it’s the best kind of surprise – Judy doesn’t want to waste it.

“Definitely,” she says. “Just give me a second to change.”

Judy drags herself to her feet and grabs for her pajama pants, still balled up on the floor by her bed. She glances back at Jen before she starts to change, prompting, “Did you end up hanging out with your friends?” 

One of Jen’s high school friends had left a message at the dorm last week, talking about plans for a ‘reunion’ when they were all back in town. Jen didn’t call her back, but claimed to be considering it. 

Now, though, she makes a scoffing sound. “Yeah, unfortunately. It was so fucking boring...everyone was just trying to show off, topping each other’s _wild college stories_ . Most of it’s probably bullshit, anyway. And of course no one asks me a single fucking question since I only moved like thirty minutes for school. Lydia and Mark just go to _Buffalo_. Like that’s exciting.”

Judy frowns. “Don’t they want to hear about the dance program and everything?” 

“God, no. They’ve been sick of hearing about dance stuff for years. Even Nora’s sick of it, and she used to dance, so. Here.” 

Judy’s just pulled her shirt off when something soft lands on her head, obscuring her vision. She grabs it: the _Cats_ shirt. Across the room, Jen’s smirking at her. “ _Your_ turn to wear it.” 

“ _Happily_.” Judy pulls the shirt over her head; it’s soft and it smells a little like Jen’s shampoo (jasmine and vanilla bean). 

“You ready?” Jen waves the wine bottle, impatient. “If we don’t go soon, we’re gonna miss the theme song, and then it’s like, why even watch?” 

Judy laughs. “Let’s go.” 

She follows Jen into the hallway, socked feet sliding a little on the floor. “Should you be carrying that?” She taps her knuckles on the wine bottle. “I thought we have a policy on soda bottle camouflage.” 

“No need to camouflage when there’s no one here to see it.” 

When they make it to the basement couch and flip the TV to the right channel, the episode has already started, but they haven’t missed the opening credits. Judy sings along, quiet and habitual, until Jen’s voice cuts her off. “Oh. Shit.” 

“What?” 

“I’m so dumb – “

“No, you’re not!” Judy protests immediately.

Jen glances at her, looking surprised at the vehement response. After a second, she laughs it off, rolling her eyes at herself. “I kinda am. I went to all the trouble of sneaking the wine from my grandparents house, back to my parents, and into my bag without anyone seeing. I smuggled this thing on the bus _and_ the subway. _But_ …” Ruefully, she tips the wine to show Judy the mouth of the bottle, cork firmly blocking their access. “I forgot to steal a fucking wine opener.” 

“ _Oh_.” Judy lets her head rest on the back of the couch, turning sideways to smile at Jen. “This is what we get for trying to be sophisticated. We’re used to twist offs.” 

“We _will_ drink this fucking wine,” Jen says firmly. “Hold on.” 

There’s a commercial on, like always after the opening credits, and Jen gets up, taking the wine bottle into the dorm’s communal kitchen that’s attached to the basement lounge. Judy thinks about following her, but it’s so nice on the couch, sunk into the cushions, and getting up feels like a lot of effort. 

There’s a wild second where she imagines Jen smashing the bottle open, pouring wine out shattered glass, so Judy mutes the TV and listens; there are frequent thuds like Jen’s opening and closing doors, and at one point she hears Jen say something that has the cadence of a curse. 

“Jen! It’s back on!” Judy calls, unmuting the TV as _The Facts of Life_ starts up again. It’s another thirty seconds before Jen struts out of the kitchen with a victorious expression, the bottle of wine, and two plastic cups held in one hand.

“Told you,” Jen says smugly, as if Judy had doubted her ability to deliver. She takes her place on the couch and hands Judy one of the cups. “Looked through every cabinet and drawer before I finally found an opener...it was a fucking _fridge magnet_. Right in the open, the whole time.” 

“Isn’t this dorm only for freshmen?” 

“Sure is.” She lifts her cup in a general toast. “Gotta love college.” 

They settle in to watch the show; usually they talk through it and over it, but Judy’s quiet tonight, the wine settling in her, warm and lazy, making everything go fuzzy at the edges. Her eyes start to feel heavy, and she keeps losing track of the episode, even though it’s one she’s seen a bunch. 

“Hey.” Jen nudges her shoulder against Judy’s during another commercial break. “You alright?” 

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just kinda tired. Sorry.” 

“Oh.” Jen scrutinizes her for a moment, frown deepening. “Did you want to go to bed? We don’t have to watch the next one –“

“No, no,” Judy assures her quickly. “I’m good. This is good.” 

+

Judy is asleep before the first episode ends.

Jen just keeps drinking wine, stuck in this frustrating loop of annoyance – annoyed that she doesn’t get to hang out with Judy, then annoyed at herself for _being_ so annoyed. 

It’s one night. And it’s already past midnight. At _most_ , she’s being robbed of a few hours, and they have all day tomorrow. So what the hell is wrong with Jen that she’s _this_ disappointed? 

She probably just built it up too much, in her head. She’s been wanting to hang out since the Tuesday night get together with her high school friends, which really was mind numbingly boring – so boring she eventually snuck away from the drunk crowd in Carolyn Evans' basement to have sex with Scott Dellinger in the backseat of his dad’s Toyota Camry. They hooked up on and off the last year or so of high school, never in an official boyfriend/girlfriend capacity, and Jen hasn’t spared Scott a single thought since she last saw him, but she was drunk and bored enough to fall into the old habit. 

Jen isn’t sure why she didn’t tell Judy that part; it wasn’t something she’d _decided_ to keep secret. Probably a good thing, though: Judy would likely want to hear all the details, and neither Scott or Jen’s history with him are interesting enough to talk about.

Then today, at her grandparents house, Jen’s mind kept drifting the fifteen miles or so to where Judy was waiting tables Jen had been secretly relieved when Judy told her she was picking up holiday shifts at work, that her Thanksgiving Day was fully booked, but then it bothered Jen all day, thinking about her coming home to the empty dorm.

Jen had been planning to come back tomorrow, anyway, but there was no real reason to wait. She’d liked the idea of showing up unexpectedly for a late night Thanksgiving, the easy calm of wine and food in front of sitcom reruns. 

But now Judy is asleep, and Jen feels like a pouty little kid who isn’t allowed to go to a sleepover. It’s fucking _ridiculous_. 

Jen didn't apply to college for the social life. She had a stringent list of priorities and making friends wasn't even in the top five. But Judy — with her cookies and quirks and infinite kindness — charmed her way onto the list, and was soaring closer and closer to the top faster than Jen could comprehend.

She watches the second _Facts of Life_ episode on the block by herself, and sticks around for the first _Bewitched_ , too, still half hoping Judy might wake up and rally. Jen keeps glancing sideways to check, but Judy never moves, her cheek resting on the couch cushion and her slow, even breathing making Jen’s hair flutter, ticklish against her arm. 

Finally, Jen turns off the television and sets about waking Judy up. It’s a tentative and apologetic process: “Judy? Hey, Jude, c’mon, wake up.” She’s way too quiet, softer than the volume of the television that’s been on for the past hour. Jen rests her hand on Judy’s arm and keeps it there, trying to jostle as gently as possible. “Judy.” 

Judy’s whole face scrunches just before she opens her eyes, gazing darting around in confusion before landing on Jen. “‘S it a commercial?” 

“Nah, you missed all the commercials. Come on.” She’s still touching Judy’s arm. Jen kind of awkwardly pats it. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.” 

“No, I’m good! I’m awake.” Judy’s eyes flare, going comically wide, and she sits up, posture going stiff and formal. Her hair is disheveled on one side, where she was laying on the couch cushion. 

Jen smiles at her – she can’t help it. “Judy. It’s two thirty in the morning. It’s a normal time to be sleeping. It’s okay.” Jen gets to her feet and offers Judy a hand. “C’mon. We’ve got all day tomorrow to, ya know...be awake.” 

Judy half laughs and lets Jen pull her to her feet. When they’re walking to the elevator, Judy reaches for the bottle of wine, plucking it out of Jen’s hand. “How much of this did I drink?” 

“You had one cup.” 

Judy shakes the bottle – there is _very_ little sloshing. “So the rest of it, that was just you?”

“It’s the _holidays_.” 

Judy smiles tiredly. The elevator doors open; Jen punches the seven for their floor and leans against the back wall. A second later, Judy settles beside her and lets her head drop onto Jen’s shoulder, groaning quietly. “I miss being asleep.” 

“Awww,” Jen teases. “Good thing you’re like one minute away from achieving that dream.” 

Judy stays where she is, and Jen feels herself smiling, small and fond. Even though Judy only made it through a cup of wine and half an episode of _Facts of Life_ , Jen’s still glad she came back. 

+

The freshmen showcase performance is an embarrassingly tiny blip in the department’s winter recital, taking place the first weekend of December. The only benefit is that it makes it easy for Jen to talk her parents out of coming to watch – they’ve seen her in too many recitals and productions, always prominently featured, to bother coming into Manhattan to watch two group numbers.

Neither the ballet or the contemporary number feature any dancer more prominently than another; Jen is never onstage with fewer than seven other dancers, and she misses the sense of hierarchy, the provably large role or number of solos that proves she’s among the best. She especially hates the ballet portion of the performance, a pas de deux that has her stuck with Blake Gaffney – he’s a decent dancer, and he never dropped her in rehearsal, but he’s fucking _obnoxious_. One of those straight male dancers with an ego inflated by the years of being rare and in demand at his local dance studio and summer intensives. 

Needless to say, Jen doesn’t feel particularly invested in the recital performances, but there’s still a dull thud of disappointment when they’re over. She can’t help thinking of recitals at Ms. Bryant’s studio back home, her status as the undisputed star, so showered with compliments and congratulations it could take her nearly an hour to get back to the dressing room after a performance. 

Tonight, though, Jen moves into the wings, the heat on her skin from the stage lights already gone for the night, anonymous amid the other freshmen, all of them as inconsequential as set dressing to the upperclassmen doing final touch ups on their makeup or last minute stretches. Some of the freshmen leave through the backstage exit, planning to circle the building and slip into the back of the audience to watch the rest of the recital, which strikes Jen as an ass kissing kind of move. 

She heads straight for the dressing room; the air is thick with the metallic tang of hairspray, and Jen’s face feels stiff beneath the stage makeup. It feels the same as every other performance night, but it’s drained of the self satisfaction, the sense of undisputed victory. 

In the dressing room, Jen ends up in front of a mirror next to Audrey, who’s plucking off her fake lashes with a slightly sullen expression not unlike Jen’s. Audrey’s reflection shoots hers a commiserating eye roll. 

“Waste of time, right?” 

“Pretty much,” Jen agrees. She gets the sense Audrey’s not used to being at the bottom of the recital hierarchy, either. They’ve never acknowledged it, but their friendship, tentative and shallow though it is, is only possible because Audrey is all about ballet, whereas it’s obvious Jen favors contemporary. They’re too much alike – aggressively intense, used to being the star – to get along if there was even a whiff of genuine competition. 

Matthew suddenly jetés dramatically into the dressing room, leaping by the nonplussed girls changing or taking off their makeup and landing behind Jen and Audrey with an annoyingly cheerful grin. He drapes an arm around both their shoulders. “Y’all, we were _fantastic_ tonight. Congrats all around.”

Jen ducks out of the sweat damp embrace while Audrey shoots Matthew a wry look. “You realize you’re supposed to compliment others without including yourself?” 

Matthew feigns confusion. “Are you sure? Even if I was a part of what I’m complimentin’?” 

“Yeah, see, you would’ve said, _y’all were fantastic_ ,” Jen does a half ass mimicry of Matthew’s southern accent. “And then we would have said, _wow, thanks Matthew, so were you_.” 

“Aw, that woulda been sweet of us,” Matthew says with a grin. “Oh, well.” He inserts himself between Audrey and the mirror. “C’mon, stop admirin’ yourself and get changed, Pizzeria Lombardo beckons.” 

Audrey smirks and rolls her eyes at Jen. “He means _Preston Connelly_ beckons,” she says, referring to a guy on Matthew’s hall – an _econ_ major, of all fucking things – that has been the primary subject of Matthew’s pre-class conversation for the past month. It was the week’s big victory that Preston asked to come to the recital. 

“You’re comin’, right?” Matthew flicks playfully at Jen’s bun. “To Lombardo?” 

“Can’t. My roommate’s here.” Jen smiles, slight and involuntary, the reminder that Judy saw the performance cheering her up a bit. 

Audrey gives her a weird look. “So bring her.”

“ _Yes_ , Jen, that’s even better, cause then it’s not _just_ dance people and Preston. Much more casual, like, oh yeah _everyone’s_ friends are comin’...except Audrey, because she doesn’t have any.”

Audrey gives him the finger. Matthew grabs it and plants a regal kiss to the back of her hand. “Besides us, of course.” He tilts his head in Jen’s direction. “Please, Jen, I kinda made it sound like dinner would be a group thing...not just an Audrey third wheelin’ us thing.”

Audrey yanks her hand away from his. “Maybe _I_ shouldn’t go, asswad.” 

Matthew ignores her, just ups his pout by a few degrees for Jen's benefit. “ _Please_.” 

“ _Fine_.” She doesn’t really have an excuse not to, with Judy invited; even if she’d prefer going to dinner just the two of them, that’s probably not a socially acceptable stance. “Are you going now? Before it’s over?” 

“Yeah, Nicholson said they want the backstage cleared out anyway – ” 

“It’s not like they’re bringing us out for the curtain call,” Audrey mutters.

“– and I told Preston I’d meet him in the lobby after we were done.” 

Audrey swats his arm. “Then go _meet_ him and let us change without a male audience.” 

“I think y’all look great. Good to go.” 

Jen scoffs. “I won’t speak for Audrey, but I’m not wearing white tulle to the fucking pizzeria.” 

Matthew finally scurries out of the girl’s dressing room to find Preston while Jen and Audrey quickly change out of their costumes. Audrey’s outfit seems to suggest the night is young, that bars and possibly even a nightclub await; Jen just puts on Levi’s and a Knicks sweatshirt, the casual outfit incongruous with her face, bright red lips and so much makeup around her eyes they’ve nearly doubled in size. 

Jen has to sneak awkwardly down the side aisles, the whole auditorium dark in the middle of two juniors’ lyrical duet, to find Judy’s row. She hovers awkwardly in the shadows until the applause starts, then hisses Judy’s name and gestures for her to leave, leading to a hasty shuffle in front of half her row, Judy whispering a stream of apologies until she reaches Jen.

“Hi! You were amazing! What are we doing?” Judy says in a confused rush of stage whispering.

“Ditching,” Jen answers, leading the way to the back of the theater. She pauses at the doors, peering into the lobby to where Audrey, Matthew, and Preston are waiting. She turns to Judy, leaning close enough to be heard over some fucking Tchaikovsky piece that’s started up. “So Audrey and Matthew and I guess Matthew’s random business school friend wanna go get pizza, and I said we would, but we also don’t have to.” 

“You want me to come?” 

“What? Yeah, but I mean, only if _you_ want to. If you’d rather just go back to the dorm, we could totally do that – ”

“No, let’s get pizza! Sounds fun,” Judy’s smiling, looking thrilled by the prospect. Jen swallows a sigh – of _course_ Judy picks the group activity, why did Jen even _try_ that – then pushes the double doors open, leading Judy into the lobby for a flurry of introductions.

+

They stay at the pizzeria for nearly two and half hours, and at _least_ ninety minutes of that is excessive. It’s the first time Jen’s seen Judy around people she’s meeting for the first time, not her pre-existing friends, and she really is just _like this_ : charming and earnest, endearing herself to everyone with the sheer force of her interest in them. It’s as if Judy genuinely believes everyone she meets has some fascinating life story, hidden just beneath the surface, and her purpose in life is to discover it. 

Matthew and Preston are charmed by Judy within the first ten minutes of meeting her, but she even gives enough compliments and asks enough questions to win over Audrey, who’s all too happy to talk through her ballet resume, beginning with age four and spanning the next fourteen years of private instructors and, apparently, so many _Nutcracker_ performances a few had to have taken place off season. 

By the time they finally (finally finally _finally_ ) pay the check, Judy’s been invited to join them for lunch at the dining hall on Monday, and she’s accepted, even though it’ll mean crossing campus and having barely twenty minutes to eat. 

“So...drinks?” Matthew says, eying Preston hopefully when they’ve all poured out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, probably five minutes away from being forcibly removed. “We could go to Aces.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Jen’s aware of Judy turning toward her, so she quickly answers, “Nah, I’m beat. We’re probably just gonna head back to the dorm,” before checking with Judy, who looks a little surprised but nods amiably. 

“I’d get a drink,” Preston says, just to Matthew, which prompts Audrey to claim exhaustion, too. Matthew’s visibly thrilled with the turn the night has taken, and Jen’s just glad for the easy, guilt free escape.

Back in their room, she and Judy crack the window and sneak hits off a joint Judy’s been hiding between the pages of _The Federalist Papers_ , required reading for her history class back in August. They’re on Jen’s bed, chasing the joint with cookies and the last few inches of a bottle of disgustingly blue vodka, snagged from a recent loft party Jen went to with Audrey and Matthew.

“You know, you never really said how you liked the performances,” Jen says casually, breaking a conversation lull and trying not to sound like someone desperate for praise.

Judy blinks at her; she’s been quiet for a few minutes, stoned enough to listen to No Doubt in contented silence and it seems to take her a second to surface enough to answer. “I did! I told you guys over and over how amazing you were.” 

“Yeah, but I mean _specifically_.” Jen tries to focus, taking a moment to gather some words that aren’t: _Specifically, how was watching ME?_

“Okay, _specifically_ , I think the first one was my favorite.” 

“The contemporary,” Jen provides. 

“Yeah. Parts of that reminded me of the solo you showed me in fall break...it was gorgeous to watch, and you were incredible. I wanted it to be longer.”

Jen nods emphatically, gratified. “Yeah, that’s what I meant about it being like a little kid class….starting next year, we get to actually audition for smaller group numbers, even solos. I don’t even know why they bother putting us in the fucking show.” 

Judy pulls an exaggerated _duh_ face. “Um, _maybe_ because some of your _roommates_ don’t want to wait a whole year to see you dance.” 

“So it was all for you, huh?” Jen grins at her, starting to feel the haziness from the weed. 

“Exactly,” Judy says, expression playful. 

“What about the ballet number?” Jen blurts out. _God_ , she really is disgustingly needy; she decides to blame it on post-performance weed.

Judy’s eyes blank, smile freezing while she chirps, “That one was great, too! _You_ were great.” 

Jen frowns. She’s expecting a deluge of Judy’s gushing, fall break style with _all the good adjectives._ She narrows her eyes and prompts, “ _But_?”

“No but! You were really good!” 

“Okay, see, you’ve already downgraded from _great_ to _really good_.” 

Judy grimaces. Jen’s eyebrows arch. 

“It’s fine,” she says stiffly, not even slightly meaning it. “I know I’m not as strong in ballet.” 

“It’s not _that._ Not at _all_ ,” Judy counters immediately, looking horrified at the prospect. “Your dancing was still amazing, it was just….”

“What?” 

“Your _face_.” 

“What about my face?”

“You kinda, like…” Judy’s face twists in demonstration; she looks like she just tasted something sour. “– _winced_ every time that guy touched you. Which was a lot.” 

“Yeah, cause _that_ _guy_ is fuckin’ gross.” 

“But does the _audience_ need to know you think that?” 

The way she says it, so completely sincere, gets a laugh out of Jen despite the criticism. “Maybe they do!” 

At Jen’s tone, more amused than offended, Judy lets loose a full blown grin. “ _Maybe..._ if you were starring in a ballet about Lorena Bobbitt.” 

Jen sighs, mock reverential. “That woman’s a hero.” 

“But she doesn’t really align with the spirit of the piece.”

“The _spirit of the piece_ ,” Jen mocks in a silly voice, too weed and vodka addled for a more intelligent rejoinder. 

“Here. We can practice.” 

They’d been sitting shoulder to shoulder, leaning back against the wall, legs dangling parallel off Jen’s bed, but now Judy turns so they’re facing head on, pinning Jen with her gaze, eyes still full of leftover smile even as the set of her mouth turns flat and serious. 

“Now,” Judy says. “Look at me like you’re in love with me.” 

Scowling, Jen jerks her eyes away from Judy’s, but they snap right back on their own accord. “How bout I look at you like I hate you?” 

Judy’s eyes flare, the corners of her lips quirking upward. “I think you’ve got that one down, but we can try it next if you want.” 

Jen’s face feels hot beneath the direct, inches away spotlight of Judy’s attention. She lifts her chin, scrambling for a scrap of dignity. “Just because it’s a partnered dance doesn’t mean we’re supposed to look like we’re _in love_.” 

“Audrey looked like she was in love with Matthew.” 

“How do you know that was the performance? Maybe she’s actually in love with him.” 

“That would be sad for her. Since he’s clearly in love with Preston.” 

“Please.” Jen rolls her eyes. “Matthew isn’t in _love_ with Preston. He just wants to hook up with him.”

“Okay, but if he _was_ in love with him…” Judy leans forward, tilts her head so she’s looking at Jen beneath her eyelashes. “What might that look like?” 

“You _gotta_ stop.” Jen covers Judy’s face with her hand, teasingly shoving it away. Jen can feel her starting to laugh beneath her fingers; she moves her hand to see it. 

“I liked them, by the way,” Judy says after a second, and Jen just stares blankly at her. “Audrey and Matthew, I mean. Preston, too.” 

“Oh. Good.” Jen reaches for another cookie, disinterested. 

Judy’s watching her, though, a sudden hesitance to her expression. “I...hope it was okay that I came.” 

“What?” Jen gives her a startled look. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Judy’s suddenly not making eye contact, the explanation coming at a reluctant crawl. “Just...I know usually, when you’re with your dance friends, you like it to be….just them. Which is totally fine!" 

“That’s not— I only hang out with them by default. I mean, I’ve _always_ hung out with mostly dancers by default. We’re not an exclusive club or anything.”

“Well, it was still really nice to be invited.”

Jen flinches, a little guilty; it wasn’t even her idea to invite Judy in the first place, and she’s making it sound like a gift Jen finally decided to give her after months of withholding it. 

“Yeah, well, if I had to listen to Audrey brag about being the Sugar Plum Fairy alone, her face might have ended up in the pizza, so. It was a good thing you were there.”

Judy laughs and sighs, knocking her knee softly against Jen’s. “I’m glad it was a good thing.”

Jen smiles back, and for a second they just grin inanely at each other, when suddenly Jen jumps up from the bed. “Hey, so. I want to give you your Christmas gift.”

From the way horror erupts across Judy’s features, you’d think Jen threatened to shove her out their seventh story window. “ _No_ , you can’t! Not yet. Yours isn’t wrapped yet, and I still...I need a couple things – “

“You don’t have to give me mine – “

“I thought we’re doing that _next_ weekend, before the dorms close.” 

“We were, but…” Jen trails off, not wanting to give too much away, but she doesn’t want to hold off too long on Judy’s gift. She kind of wanted her to know about before going to work tomorrow for her usual Saturday shift. “It’s sort of time sensitive.” 

Judy scrutinizes her, looking torn. “I can have yours ready by Sunday night. Is that too late?”

Jen sighs, long suffering. “I guess not.” 

“Good,” Judy’s clearly relieved, spared the indignity of handing Jen an _unwrapped_ gift. “Sunday night, then. Christmas gift exchange.” 

“Did you want to schedule a time?” Jen asks dryly. “8:12 pm, on the dot?”

“Yep. I won’t untie a ribbon a minute sooner.”

“A _ribbon_ ,” Jen scoffs; if Judy needs two days for wrapping, she definitely needs to lower her expectations for Jen’s own efforts, which amount to a gift bag, no tissue paper, currently hiding on the shelf in her closet.

+

On Sunday night, not _precisely_ 8:12 pm but not off by much, Jen and Judy come back from the dining hall, and Jen pointedly pulls the plain green gift bag out of her closet and sets it on the desk, prompting Judy to open her own closet and drags out a fairly large present, expertly wrapped in red paper printed with white reindeer, candy canes, and snowflakes. 

Judy sets the gift on the floor between them and looks expectantly at Jen. “Who goes first?” 

“Me.” 

The immediate response makes Judy laugh. “What if _I_ wanted to go first?” 

“We’re such only children. It’s sad.”

Judy smiles. “No, really, you go.”

“Okay.” The gift is bulky, and after a moment of consideration Jen just sits on the floor beside it, like a kid by the tree on Christmas morning. She rips through the wrapping paper in seconds and feels a smile getting started, spreading fast.

It’s excessively thoughtful, which is to say: very Judy. She got Jen a foot spa, lined the edges with gold and red tinsel, and filled the bath with smaller items: a Broadway themed pack of playing cards, a set of essential oils, nail polish, a miniature pack of their cookies.

Jen looks up Judy, whose expression is a rivalry between nerves and anticipation. “See, I know you said you miss having a bathtub...especially with the way your feet always hurt.”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Jen says emphatically, and Judy’s face melts into a relieved smile. “All this stuff is.”

“Oh, good.” Judy kneels beside her on the floor and reaches for the one unidentified item in the spa, a tiny velvet bag with a drawstring. She opens the bag and carefully pours three polished rocks into her palm.

“God, here we go,” Jen says, but she’s grinning.

Judy bites back a smile and ignores her, handing Jen one of the rocks. “This is green malachite...it absorbs negative energy and excels at releasing unwanted emotions. _This_ one – ” She passes Jen a second stone, this one a reddish orange color. “– is Carnelian. It’s a positive, uplifting motivator, especially for balancing the physical body...perfect for you, since you train so hard. And this is Lapis Lazuli...it’s supposed to deepen new friendships by readying you to open up and speak from the heart.” 

She gives Jen the last crystal, a pretty, deep blue stone, and Jen schools her face into a serious expression. “Got it. That all sounds helpful. I’m all set now.” 

Judy shakes her head, looking fondly exasperated. “I know you don’t believe in this stuff. You can put them in the bottom of your dance bag and forget about it if you want...I just like knowing you have them.” 

“Thank you,” Jen says indulgently, then, more sincere, “For everything...I _definitely_ believe in foot baths. Like, seriously a game changer, so thanks.” 

“You’re welcome. I’m just glad you like it.” 

Jen holds her eyes, and there’s a beat where she should hug Judy but it’s awkward with them both on the floor. Finally, Jen stands up and grabs for the gift bag on her desk. When she turns around, Judy’s up, too. “Your turn.” She hands it over, anticipation fluttering warm and giddy in her chest.

Judy reaches into the bag and her eyes flare with immediate delight. She pulls out the scarf and gloves, and Jen winces when the movement sends the _real_ gift, the main attraction, drifting to the floor. 

Judy doesn’t notice, touching the deep purple fabric of the scarf to her chin. “It’s so _soft_.” She beams at Jen. “My first ever winter wear! I love them.”

“You _needed_ them,” Jen corrects with a smirk. “I hope you realize I’m the only reason you’re even alive.” 

Sometime in early November, after realizing that a denim jacket was the closest thing Judy had to “winter wear”, Jen had proceeded to explain that a jacket is not a _coat_ , and New York is not California. Then she’d designated one of her older, heavy black coats as a required layer if Judy was going to leave the dorm.

“I do realize that,” Judy says solemnly. “And I am grateful.” 

She smiles and takes a step toward Jen, like she’s going to hug her, but Jen immediately gestures awkwardly at the floor. “Hey, um, I think you dropped something else.” 

Judy looks down and sees one of the thick, rectangular pieces of paper sitting right by her foot. Jen grabs the other one, which had landed further away, near the foot of her bed, and hands it to Judy. She’s studying at the tickets like she doesn’t quite understand what she’s looking at. 

“Wait, I don’t...is this…” She looks up at Jen, bewildered. “Are we going to California?” 

“What? No. _You’re_ going to California. Look, see, one of the tickets is for the return flight.” 

Not long after Thanksgiving break, Jen had asked Judy if she had her flight home for Christmas yet; the break between semesters is nearly a month long, and it’s the only break where the dorms are fully closed, no occupancy allowed, so Jen had been startled when Judy casually replied that she wasn’t going back – “It’s not a big deal, I should have saved and planned for it better, didn’t realize how much ticket prices go up during the holidays.” She had immediately assured Jen she had everything figured out: she has some upperclassmen, art department friends who will be leaving an unoccupied apartment in the city for most of the break. They’re supposed to let her stay there and tend to their weed plants or whatever, and Judy had insisted she was glad to get more holiday hours in at work, but the whole thing still sounded bleak.

Now, Judy is staring, wide eyed, at the airline tickets for so long that Jen starts to feel fidgety and impatient in the silence. “Sorry it’s not until the 20th, I know that still sticks you here for a few days after finals end...a lot of the earlier flights were full already, plus I wanted to make sure you’d have time to work it out with the restaurant…..” Jen’s voice trails off, disconcerted by the lack of response. 

“Jen.” Judy finally looks up at her, the slightest catch in her voice. “This is...it’s _way_ too generous, I can’t – “

“No, God, it really wasn’t a big deal...my dad has miles, that covered most of it. It’s fine.” Jen meets her eyes, the edges of her voice softening. “It’s Christmas. You should get to see your mom.” 

There’s a moment where Jen can’t quite decipher the look on Judy’s face, but then she rushes forward and hugs Jen, hard, without letting go right away. “Thanks,” she says, quiet against Jen’s hair, just before pulling away to look at Jen, still a little shocked. “I can’t believe you did that.”

Jen shrugs, dismissive; annoyingly, she can feel herself blushing. Lightening her tone, she says, “Don’t worry, we can still do some of that New York City, Christmas magic shit you were talking about before you go.” 

Jen had promised to come into the city from Brooklyn over the break, since Judy, predictably, thinks New York in December is magical and cinematic. 

They end up going to Rockefeller Plaza the next Saturday, after a week of finals. Judy’s in her new scarf and gloves and she brings along a Kodak disposable camera. Jen gets an instinctive flash of dread when she first sees it – she’s got the typical lifelong New Yorker’s disgust at engaging in touristy behavior – but once they’re in the throng of out of towners, it doesn’t feel so conspicuous. She even poses for a photo with Judy, the giant Christmas tree in the background, partially to make up for having to ruin Judy’s ice skating hopes on the grounds that she can’t risk a leg injury. 

The dorms are open through the weekend, but Friday was the last possible day for exams, so the campus has mostly emptied out. After Rockefeller, they take the subway back to the station closest to their dorm but don’t go back in yet. They duck into a Starbucks, enjoying the stuffy warmth for the ten minutes they wait in line before taking their gingerbread lattes and walking around Greenwich Village, in between trees freckled in Christmas lights and old buildings with wreaths in nearly every window. 

The last week has been frantic and stressful, with Judy cramming for exams and Jen anxiously preparing for multiple performance assessments alongside obligatory studying for her written exams in Kinesthetics, Music Theory and English Lit. They both crashed early last night, not even a sip of wine to toast the merciful end of the semester, but tonight they’re giddy and wired, like little kids hitting the hyperactive peak at an up-all-night slumber party. When they’re finally tired of the cold and the walking, they go back to the dorm and stay up half the night, drinking the last sips left in a few different wine and liquor bottles, clearing out their supply and watching TV in the basement. They even end up playing a very tipsy round of ping pong around two in the morning – no one keeps track of the score, but Jen definitely wins. 

It’s almost four am when they finally relent and let the night end; when Judy murmurs a sleepy, alcohol cushioned goodnight from her bed, Jen has a sudden glimpse of the next month without Judy three feet away, easy to find. It’s the feeling of missing her, arriving too early and knocking at Jen’s chest, waiting to be let in.

But she’s glad Judy gets to go home for the holidays, and Jen feels good about making it happen; that’s what she holds onto the next day, when they hug goodbye before leaving the dorms. Jen’s heading back to Brooklyn, and Judy’s staying in her art friend’s apartment until her flight on Wednesday afternoon. She has Jen’s parents phone number on a Post-It and instructions to call as soon as she’s landed and made it back to her mom’s. 

+

Judy’s flight leaves from Newark on Wednesday, December 20, at 4:55 pm. It should have her landing at LAX at 7:15...10:15 in New York. It’ll take a few hours before she’s gotten her luggage and made it to her mom’s, but Jen told her to call anyway, even if it’s after midnight on the east coast. Jen spends the night stretched out on her bed, watching TV with her phone pulled off her nightstand and set on the mattress where Jen can grab it on the first ring, hopefully before it wakes up her parents. 

The stirrings of anxiety start at midnight, just the slightest itch that grows steadily more persistent. By 1:30 she finally reaches for it, going downstairs to the family desktop and waiting impatiently to connect to the internet so she can check the airline website to make sure the plane landed on time.

It did, so Jen’s nerves are immediately stomped on by pure irritation. She maybe shouldn’t be shocked that Judy got so caught up in catching up with her mother that she forgot to call, but it’s still fucking annoying; Jen should have insisted on getting their number before Judy left, instead of letting her get away with the chirpy little _Oh, I’ll just call you!_

Jen’s in a shitty mood the whole next day; during her morning work out in the basement, she stops mid combination when she hears the phone ringing from upstairs, gets to the top of steps before she hears her dad talking to someone in what’s unmistakably his business voice. It’s not even eight am in California; there’s no way Judy’s even awake yet.

By late afternoon, Jen still hasn’t heard anything and worry starts to stir itself back into her annoyance. Jen had never realized how prone she is to dive straight for the worst case scenario before she met Judy, but there’s just something about her that’s begging for protection – like Judy walks around with her heart on the outside of her body, vulnerable to anyone. Los Angeles is her home turf, she should be fine there, but it _is_ still a city....and Judy _did_ fall for the scam of an eighty year old woman. There are worse people, and worse crimes, all over the place, California included.

Jen is brooding silently through a dinner of Chinese takeout with her parents when the phone rings, and she half launches out of her chair and goes for the nearest phone, the one hanging on the wall in the kitchen that’s nearly as old as the house itself. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey!” 

Jen groans, deliberately loud into the mouthpiece. “What the _fuck_ , Judy? What took you so long?” 

She hears her mom say her name, exasperated at the curse, and waves a hand in an impatient apology before walking out of the kitchen, stretching the coiled phone cord as far as it will go.

“I know, I’m really sorry,” Judy says. “I couldn’t get to a phone...I mean, there were pay phones at the airport but I didn’t have change yet. Which was stupid of me, I should have gotten quarters just in case…”

Jen sighs – again, deliberately audible and aimed at the phone – and sits down in the hallway, idly twisting the telephone cord around her free hand as she leans back against the wall. “What are you talking about, you _couldn’t get to a phone_? You said you’d call when you got to your mom’s.” 

“I know. I really am sorry, I swear I was going to, but I took the bus to our last apartment and it turns out my mom doesn’t live there anymore.” 

Judy delivers this bizarre information as if its an everyday, mundane sort of bummer, like finding out your dentist retired or your favorite dessert got taken off a restaurant menu. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Yeah, my key for the building worked and everything, but when I got to our apartment I put my key in the door and I guess the locks had been changed….there’s a sweet Puerto Rican family living there now. They didn’t know anything about my mom, but they were really nice about it. They even asked if I wanted to come in and use the phone, but I knew you wouldn’t want me to go into a stranger’s place so I didn’t.”

“So, okay, hold on….your mom _moved_ and just didn’t fucking tell you?” 

“I guess.”

“And you didn’t tell her you were coming?” 

“No, but...it’s not that I was trying to surprise her or anything like that. I just haven’t been able to get in touch in awhile – “

“How long’s _awhile_?” 

“Um…” For the first time, Judy seems to falter, embarrassment sneaking into her voice. “Two months or so?”

“ _Judy_.” 

There is a sinkhole of panic opening up, deep in Jen’s gut. Nothing Judy is saying makes sense, Jen misunderstood something somewhere. She’s never asked much about Judy’s mom, having her own reasons for steering conversation away from the topic of mothers, but Judy’s never said anything that suggests she’s anything but a normal, loving parent. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Because it’s _really_ not that weird...sometimes she can’t pay the phone bill, or she leaves town for a little while and just _doesn’t_ pay the phone bill. It doesn’t usually mean anything too bad, and you were so great to get the tickets....I figured I’d be able to track her down once I got here, so today I've been trying to get in touch with as many of her friends as I can. Well, the ones who aren’t still too pissed to talk to me – long story. But no one seems to have heard from her in awhile, so I really don’t think she’s in town.” 

Jen’s quiet for a moment, struggling to absorb everything. Judy doesn’t seem to find it unusual that she has no idea where her mother currently lives, or that that she hasn’t spoken to her in months.

“Wait a second, so...where did you stay last night?” 

“Well, after I left our apartment, I wanted to check a couple of shelters we’d stayed in before, just in case she was there. It took awhile, with the bus and everything, the last one I ended up at when it was kinda late. When I explained everything they let me stay for the night, so that worked out.”

Jen inhales, sudden and sharp, and Judy quickly adds, in a reassuring voice, “But only because it was too late to call anyone! I could have crashed with friends if I’d thought about it sooner, but it was totally fine. We actually slept there for like two months when I was maybe nine or so, everyone’s really nice there, and you get breakfast before you have to clear out for the day.” 

Jen doesn’t say anything for a moment. _Can’t_ , really. Her heart feels stuck where it slammed into the wall of her chest, and _fuck_ , she got this so, so wrong.

“I really am sorry I didn’t call sooner,” Judy says after too much silence. “How are you? Are your aunt and cousins there yet?” 

Jen chokes out a disbelieving laugh. “ _Jesus_ , Judy, you can’t just...change the subject. I’m not gonna sit here and make fucking _small talk_.” 

“Sorry,” Judy says quietly. 

“Just…” Jen closes her eyes, trying to think. “Where are you _now_?” 

“Oh, I’m at my foster sister’s house.”

Jen jolts off the wall. “Your _what_?!”

“Well, technically we only lived together for five months, so it’s not _really_ like sisters...but Sadie’s always been really nice anytime I get back in touch. She and her boyfriend live in Venice, they said I could stay for a couple nights.”

“What do you mean a _couple_ nights? Then what happens?” 

“I’m not sure yet, but there are plenty of people I can call. Friends from school, people my mom knows. It’ll be fine...gives me an excuse to visit everyone.” 

“Judy.” Jen’s voice comes out clipped and aggressive, but it’s a relief to have a singular focus. She is going to find out where exactly Judy plans to be for the next sixteen days before she turns her attention to other, more frightening questions, like _why were you in foster care?_ and _what the hell is up with your mom?_ and _how the fuck did I not know so much about you?_

“Christmas is in _four days_. You’re not flying back here until January fucking sixth. You can’t just _not be sure_ if you have a place to stay for – “

Jen stops talking abruptly at the sound of Judy’s voice, but it’s muffled and quieter than before, like she’s covering the mouthpiece and talking to someone else. “– almost done, sorry. I know.” 

“Judy?” 

“Um, Jen, I gotta go soon – “ Someone on the other end of the phone cuts her off. Jen can make out the clipped cadence of a male voice but not the words. “Right, sorry. I have to go _now_ , but I’ll call you back from a pay phone or – “ 

“ _What_? Fuck that, no, we’re not done talking about this.”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m at Sadie and Kyle’s place, and he, well, they – “ Judy's voice stumbles again; it sounds like there are at least two people in the room talking over her. “– they’re worried about the long distance charge.” 

“Oh my _God_. Throw a dollar at them and tell them to give you some fucking privacy.”

“I – “

The man – _Kyle_ , presumably – is talking again, loud enough that Jen picks up on a few phrases: _fucking money_ and _not Sadie’s house_. She can feel the fight rising in her throat, jaw clenching beneath bared teeth. 

“Judy _?"_

She doesn't answer. 

" _Judy_." There's urgency shot through Jen's voice now. "Talk to me, are you okay?” 

“I’m here, Jen, sorry,” Judy’s voice is strained and frazzled, but now there’s a forced smile behind it. “I’m gonna get a phone card! I just gotta run down the street, there’s a CVS, and then I’ll call you back, it’ll take like twenty minutes – “

“Jude, just wait a _second_ – “

“I’ll call you _right back_ , I swear. I’m sorry!”

“But – “ 

The line goes dead, and the rest of Jen’s sentence twists into a low, frustrated growl. 

  
+

Judy hangs up on Jen, feeling sick on her stomach as she does, and after apologizing to Kyle while Sadie apologizes to her, she heads down the block to a CVS, where she’ll be able to buy a card with prepaid phone minutes – she should have thought of the long distance charges sooner. 

It’s nice, at least, that she doesn’t have to drag her suitcase and backpack on the walk. She’d spent a lot of time today apologizing to bus drivers and passengers for the bulky cargo she had to cart around to different parts of the city, always in the hope that her mother’s friends, or ex-friends, or ex-boyfriends, still lived where Judy thought they did.

She puts her headphones on, even for the short walk down the street. She’s not usually like Jen, who puts her headphones on anytime she’s walking by herself anywhere further than the hall bathroom, preferring to be free to exchange greetings and small talk with people she passes on campus or even on the subway. But ever since she left the old apartment building last night, Judy's worn the headphones like a security blanket. 

Jen brought her few new tapes back after Thanksgiving, since she could use her father’s stereo system to make mixes, including one that’s full of songs and artists Jen doesn’t even like that much, but Judy left that one in the bag, preferring their mutual favorites. She didn’t sleep well last night, at the shelter, had ended up laying awake for hours with Alanis Morissette singing in her ears (Jen just taped her the entire album, saying they clearly both needed their own copy, they play it so much), the familiarity of the song trying to drown out her homesickness. 

It wasn’t the apartment, not really...they only lived there a year, and even though the year had been a startlingly good one – her mother home and so happy they were together again, so convincing and insistent about her fresh start – Judy is used to leaving places. She’s used to her mom not being where she’s supposed to. 

But after everything last night, she had been so homesick for the dorm, and New York, and for Jen, that she could barely breathe through it. The miles between Los Angeles and New York felt overwhelming and insurmountable, and when Judy finally fell into a shallow sleep, she had vague nightmares about losing her ticket, her flight getting cancelled, being unable to make it to the airport in time. She’d ended up jolting awake at three in the morning and digging frantically through her bag to find her return ticket, stuck between the pages of her sketchbook, reassure herself it was real and committing the date, time and flight number to memory, deciding she show up at the airport terminal days early if she had to. 

She hadn’t gone back to sleep, just started the tape over and lay in the not-quite-dark, not-quite-quiet of the shelter room crowded with bunk beds. She’d pulled out her keys and slid them onto the Statue of Liberty keychain – she’d brought it to give to her mother, along with other souvenirs from the kind of tourist shops Jen hates – then kept them in her hands. While Alanis sang about irony, Judy let her fingers trace the edges of her dorm room key, this bit of priceless, comforting gold that still opens a door somewhere, still means she has a home.

At the store, Judy buys a three pack of calling cards, 100 minutes on each one. She'll give Kyle some cash, too, to cover the earlier call. She wasn't being entirely honest with Jen, earlier; Kyle _did_ say she could only stay a few nights, but once he left the room Sadie told her not to listen to him, that she could stay as long as she needed. Still, on the walk back to their place, Judy starts making a list in her head, counting the houses and apartments of people who might let her stay, dividing the sixteen days before her flight between them.

Sadie, of course. Maybe Tameka Reese, her closest friend at the school she attended for half of her sophomore and all of her junior year. Rosie, an old friend of her mom's who was pretty nice to Judy when she stopped by this morning. Jeremy Cooper, who she sort of dated last year and should probably be a last resort. Her favorite foster parents, the Barretts, who would probably let her stay the entire two weeks if she told them she needed to – which she won't. It's the holidays, and they'll have family visiting from out of town, children and grandchildren who never liked having to share their family holidays with foster kids. 

No more than two nights at each place, that's what Judy decides. Even if they offer more, she won't take it. Two nights, though, isn't too much to ask, as long as she doesn't make long distance calls or eat too much of their food and stays out of the way. The only problem is Christmas this coming Monday...inviting herself to someone else's home on the holiday _would_ be asking too much, even if it's only for a night. Judy would rather go back to the shelter on Christmas Eve, but she won't tell Jen that; Judy sort of wishes she hadn't mentioned it in the first place, Jen sounded so weird and worried after.

When she gets back to Kyle and Sadie's, Judy apologizes again and shows them the phone cards, promising not to make a call without them. "And I'll be out of your hair by Saturday," she adds. 

"You sure, kid?" Sadie asks, studying her. "He's fulla shit, we got nothing going on...you're welcome to hang around for Christmas." 

Kyle's head whips around at that, and he looks ready to argue, so Judy quickly answers, "That's okay, I'm actually gonna go stay with some friends, once they get back in town...it'll just be two nights." She glances nervously at Kyle, lifting the phone card pack again for emphasis before adding, "I'm just gonna call my roommate back, if that's okay."

Sadie grins at her. "Yeah, yeah, big shot college kid, we get it. Go ahead." 

She takes the cordless phone onto the cramped, stripped wood deck behind Sadie and Kyle's little bungalow and sits on the steps before tearing open the pack of cards. It's a tedious process, punching in the long stream of numbers on the card and listening to a voice recording talking her through the process and keeping count of her available minutes before she can finally dial Jen's parent's house. 

Jen picks up after the first ring. "Hello?" 

She makes the standard greeting sound like an accusation, and Judy grins into the phone. "Is that how you always answer?"

Jen exhales – she's kind of a loud breather over the phone. "Only when I get _hung up on_." 

"Sorry. I didn't want to, but –" 

"I know, it's fine," Jen says. "Are you still with those people?" 

"Yeah...it was my fault, I should have thought about the charges. They're being really nice letting me stay."

"Uh-huh." Jen sounds unimpressed. "Listen, I talked my dad. He's gonna call the airline and get your flight changed."

"Changed how?" For a wild, irrational second, yesterday's nightmares scream in Judy's head, and she's afraid her return ticket is about to be cancelled.

"Uh, move it to an earlier day?" Jen says, like that was obvious. "Tonight, hopefully, but if not then tomorrow." 

"I...I don't understand," Judy says in a small voice. "You can do that?" 

"Yeah, of course. People do it all the time."

"But...you bought the ticket. You used all those miles...it's been less than a day, I can't just turn around and come back."

"Judy...I got you the ticket, as a _gift_ , because I wanted you to spend Christmas with your mom. Not fucking couch surf for two and half weeks. It's a shitty present now, so we're fixing it. Just get to the airport, okay? Do you have enough money for a shuttle or something? I'm assuming _Kyle_ won't drive you without sending you a fucking gas bill." 

Judy can't speak for a second, tentative hope getting a hold of her. It would be so much better to go back to New York, where there's an empty apartment she can stay in without bothering anyone, for all the nights she needs it, with Jen only half an hour away on the train.

"Judy?" 

"I can get there," Judy says, her voice shaking a little, gone weak with relief. "I left the key to Jason's place with his building manager, but I'm sure if I call him he could work it out, they were fine with me staying before – "

"What?" The way she says it, Judy can picture the exact expression Jen's making: eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled, eyebrows crowded together – all impatient incredulity. "No, Judy, God, I'm not saying go back to those guys' apartment...you're staying here, okay? Just call me when you get to the airport, hopefully my dad has it figured out by then. Those calling cards work on pay phones so you shouldn't even need quarters to –"

Pained, Judy finally forces herself to interrupt. "Jen, I can't...I can't ask your parents to let me stay for that long."

"You're _not_ asking. And neither am I."

"But it's Christmas. You have family coming in."

"Exactly. It's _Christmas_. And I already told my parents what's going on, they're not gonna let me drop you off in an empty loft in the city."

"I...I don't have to stay more than a few nights. I could go to the apartment, after Christmas."

"Why would you do that?" Jen sounds baffled. 

Judy's quiet again. She's trying not to cry.

Jen sighs, loudly, but then her voice gentles, "Seriously. Come. It'll be nice having you here." 

Judy closes her eyes, feeling tears catch on her lashes. 

Jen is maybe the only person in the world who could say that and mean it. The only person Judy would believe it from.

"Okay," Judy says, barely above a whisper. "I'll be there." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes (* indicates source of the chapter title) 
> 
> These Are Days - 10,000 Maniacs*  
> Mr. Mistoffelees - Cats Original Broadway Cast  
> Tiny Dancer - Elton John  
> Real Love - Mary J. Blige  
> Gypsy - Suzanne Vega  
> Just A Girl - No Doubt  
> Ironic - Alanis Morissette


	3. let your heart be light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly we need to just stop claiming it'll be shorter next time and instead just issue a blanket apology. Also, we had to give Jen a maiden name, but will probably try to be minimal in its use so it doesn't take the reader out of the story etc etc.

Jen gets to the airport way too early on Friday, and it’s mostly her dad’s fault. He didn’t even want to let her come by herself, doesn’t trust her driving his car on the highway, since she hasn’t done it much. She doesn’t drive much, _period_ ; there’s rarely a reason to but – as Jen pointed out multiple times during the morning’s argument – what was the point of making her get a fucking driver’s license if she was never going to be allowed to actually drive? 

There was no way she was picking Judy up with her dad in tow, forgoing the forty-five minute drive from Newark to Brooklyn to talk to her alone. Her dad finally relented and handed over the keys, on the grounds that she gives herself “plenty of time” to get there, as if her lack of recent driving experience would make her more susceptible to getting _lost_. 

It didn’t, obviously. Which is how she ends up at baggage claim, checking a board for Judy’s flight before it’s even arrived. It’s at least marked as ON TIME, arriving at 5:20 pm as scheduled, so Jen slouches into a chair in front of an empty baggage carousel to wait. 

Wait, and try to get herself calm. Jen saw her less than a week ago, but in that time she’s had her entire understanding of Judy scattered and rearranged...and it’s about to get shaken up even further. Jen knows there’s going to have to be a talk, and there’s a pit of dread in her stomach, growing every time she thinks about it. 

Jen has her own secret that is about to be exposed, but at least it’s a simple one to explain; her mother’s cancer is _the_ catastrophe of their lives, the bomb that fell out of nowhere nine years ago and destroyed the perfectly normal life that had been there before. With Judy, though...foster care and homeless shelters and disappearing mothers don’t happen if you aren’t already living on top of fault lines. 

Jen has so many questions for Judy. She’s scared to hear the answers. 

There is a chorus of reunions all around Jen, names being shouted as families embrace with their voices overlapping in the hurry to catch up. Jen gets sick of watching and goes outside. She settles onto a bench near the taxi stand, annoyed she was too preoccupied to even grab her Walkman before she left the house, leaving her with nothing except cigarettes to pass the time. 

That’s where Judy finds her, eventually, in a cloud of smoke just outside of baggage claim. She calls Jen’s name, and when Jen turns she’s smiling and pulling a suitcase toward her. “Hi!” She gives an exaggerated shudder just before she reaches Jen. “God, it’s cold.”

Jen stands up just in time for Judy to hug her. She manages to force out a returning _hey_ , quieter than she meant to. It’s unsettling, Judy’s same as always smile and same as always cheeriness. 

They pull away, and Jen glances at Judy’s rolling suitcase; she’s been sitting out here longer than she thought, if the luggage has already arrived. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t in there,” Jen says, since she had told Judy she’d meet her at baggage claim. “I got here kinda early, your flight hadn’t even landed yet...I couldn’t take anymore of the Newark Airport Very Special Christmas episode.” 

Judy laughs. “It’s sweet, though! I watched so many people getting picked up by, like, their _entire_ families.” 

Judy says it with no apparent bitterness or irony, but Jen’s chest pangs for her anyway. She feels shitty, suddenly, that Judy had to come _find_ her. She should have been waiting at baggage claim.

Judy’s still talking, oblivious to the effect of her comment. “Airports must be extra happy around Christmas. There were these little kids with homemade signs, like, _Merry Christmas, Grandpa_ . They were adorable, they got so excited when they saw their grandfather. And I sat next to this woman, Amy? She’s in medical school at UCLA, she had another flight down to West Virginia...she’s staying with her family for Christmas, _and_ she’s meeting her new nephew for the first time. She showed me photos from when he was a few weeks old, but he’s almost five months now. Connor Jordan Walsh.”

Jen has no idea how to respond to any of that, and she especially has no idea how to react to the full name of some random baby. “Very...distinguished,” she says finally, then takes the handle of Judy’s rolling bag away from her and nods in the direction of the short term parking deck. “C’mon, I’m parked over there.”

Judy falls into step beside her, letting Jen pull the suitcase. “I’m really sorry you had to wait.” 

“Not your fault, my dad’s just pathological. He thought I’d somehow get lost on a highway and end up in fucking Pennsylvania Amish country or something.” 

Judy smiles at her, and after that they’re quiet for the rest of the walk to the car. Jen throws Judy’s suitcase in the trunk and gets into the driver’s seat. By the time they’re out of the parking deck, Judy’s found her dad’s meager cassette collection in the passenger seat glove box and is picking through it.

“You’re shit out of luck with those, unless you’re suddenly into The Eagles.” Off Judy’s look, Jen explains, “They’re all my dad’s.” 

“Oh.” Judy grins and closes the glove box. “Was looking for some of yours.”

“I forgot to bring any. We don’t use the car enough, I didn’t even think about it. Here...” Jen messes with the radio until she finds a station not playing Christmas music, turning up the volume on Soul Asylum. 

Judy’s looking out the window. “Did I miss any snow?” 

“In two days? No.” Jen glances sideways at Judy, nearly smiles at her obvious relief. “They’re saying maybe flurries next week.” 

“Yeah?” Judy’s eyes brighten. “On Christmas?” 

“Sorry. Not until after... _late_ next week.” 

“That’s alright. Maybe it’ll be a white New Year’s instead.” They’re quiet for a mile or so, then Judy says, “How far are we from your parent’s place?” 

“Um, little over an hour? Could be closer to two with the traffic.”

“Sounds good.” 

Jen glances at her again. Judy smiles back, automatic. Nearly two hours in the car; there’s time for Jen to work up to the hard part. 

For now, she asks, “Was your flight okay?” 

“Yeah, it was good! Kinda bumpy...apparently that’s normal, though, for it to be more turbulent flying west to east than the other way around. Cynthia – that’s the flight attendant, she was the best – she said it’s because of the jet stream, that we’re going in the same direction as the wind. That’s why the flight’s shorter, too.” 

“Fascinating,” Jen says dryly.

“Oh!” Judy touches her arm in sudden excitement, then immediately snatches her hand back as if it might interfere with Jen’s driving. “Sorry. But I just remembered...how were the Rockettes?” 

“It was fun.” Jen had told Judy that she and her mom go to the _Christmas Spectacular_ show at Radio City Music Hall every year, and have been since Jen was four years old. They’ve only missed it twice, on the very worst years for her mom’s health: once when Jen was ten, and then again when she was fourteen. That year had broken a streak of Jen’s obnoxiously adolescent habit of eye rolling and scowling through the show, like she needed to convey to everyone in their vicinity that she had outgrown it. But her mom had been so apologetic when they couldn’t go, it (mostly) cured Jen of the attitude the last few years.

“I mean, it’s pretty much the same every year,” Jen continues. “But it’s still cool to go. I was obsessed with the costumes as a kid.” 

There’s a sudden smile in Judy’s voice. “Would you want to be a Rockette someday?” 

“I actually can’t. They have a really strict height requirement...you gotta be at least five six.” 

“Even if you’re an amazing dancer?” 

“Yep. Even if you’re an amazing dancer and _one_ inch too short.”

“Maybe there’s still time? Some people must have late onset growth spurts, right?” 

Jen smirks. “Like you’d know.” 

Judy laughs. “So you and I are _equally_ unqualified to be Rockettes?” 

“Let’s not go that far.” 

“Seriously, though. That doesn’t seem fair.” 

“I’ve made my peace with it. Anyway, I don’t want a job where the audience is just waiting for me to fucking _kick_.”

“That is kinda their signature move, huh?”

“It’s actually really impressive,” Jen mutters grudgingly.

“You _could_ do it, though. It’s not your fault their height policy is discriminatory.” 

It’s so easy, talking like this. Jen keeps getting lulled into the comforting familiarity of it, but as soon as the conversation stalls, all that dread and worry and fear floods back in to fill the silence. Jen can’t stand it for very long, but she can’t keep hiding behind flimsy small talk and hollow banter. 

“So…” Jen breaks a brief stretch of quiet. “There’s probably stuff we should talk about.” 

“I know,” Judy says immediately, voice turning serious. “I asked back at LAX, how much it cost to change the flight. I’m gonna pay your parents back, I swear.” 

“Jesus, Judy, I’m not worried about the fucking money,” Jen says, her voice softened despite the cursing. “I just wish you’d told me...I feel shitty I basically forced you to go there.” 

“You have _nothing_ to feel bad about,” Judy says vehemently. “That gift...that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” 

Jen’s suddenly glad she’s driving; it gives her an excuse not to look at Judy, see just how much she means that. 

Judy continues, “And anyway, I really did think I’d be able to track Mom down once I got there. I figured _someone_ would know where she was living now.” 

It takes Jen a second to figure out what to ask. “Does your mom...does she do this a lot?”

“Kinda,” Judy answers, her voice suddenly small. “When I was a kid, if she took off, it wasn’t usually for very long. Never more than a few weeks.” 

“What do you mean, when she _took_ _off_? Where was she going?” 

“She didn’t always say. I think she was just off with friends, or sometimes a boyfriend...she had me pretty young, so she missed out on a lot, you know? I get needing a break sometimes.” 

Jen’s grip is so tight on the steering wheel it hurts. “So who was with _you_?” 

“Well, nobody who was actually _staying_ with me. But I usually knew some of the neighbors, so they were around in case anything happened. And I took the bus to school anyway.”

“Uh huh.” There’s a muscle pulsing in Jen’s jaw. She recognizes the patient understanding in Judy’s voice, and she’s never hated it more. 

“When I couldn’t get in touch with her for a full month, I kinda figured Mom either had the phone line cut off or she got evicted. That _did_ happen a lot, we’d have to move pretty suddenly...but Mom made sure we were never on the streets or anything. We’d crash with her friends, or park the car somewhere safe – “

“Or go to a shelter?” Jen asks, sharper than she means to.

“Sometimes, but mostly just for a few nights...that was usually just if the car got impounded. It’s hard to find places to park for long in LA...but my mom was good about sticking close when that happened.” 

Jen stays quiet. Her mom said something, last night, that keeps gnawing at Jen every time she thinks about it. After that first phone call with Judy, Jen had to explain to her parents what seemed to be going on. She’d been worked up and preemptively defensive, having to tell them the airline miles had essentially been wasted, so she ended up sounding more heated than she felt, rambling about Judy’s mom not calling her for two months and Judy sleeping in a homeless shelter. Jen’s parents had only seemed concerned, never angry, but there were still questions she couldn’t answer, and her own frustration with Judy’s abruptly ended phone call had boiled over enough for her to complain, “She acts like this is _normal_.” 

Jen’s mom had just given her this small, sad smile that she’s seen before and always hates, and said, “Maybe it is.” 

Now, there’s no way to avoid the truth of that, with Judy talking as though her mother not ditching her when they were basically living on the streets is a commendable act of parenting. Jen can’t think of anything good to say about that. 

Finally, inadequately and with her eyes firmly on the road, Jen tells Judy, “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” Judy sounds genuinely confused.

“Just. You know. I’m sorry you went through all that.” 

“Oh, it’s okay. It really wasn’t so bad.” 

Jen finally chances a sidelong glance at her, but Judy’s turned away, looking out the window. The radio is just playing ads; Jen fiddles with the dial and finally gives up, letting it land on Christmas music. Judy looks over and smiles at her. 

“I’m excited to see your house!” 

Jen lets herself relax at the change of topic. “Fair warning, it’ll be kinda crowded for the next few days. Aunt Susan and the kids got in from Maine this morning.” 

“How old are your cousins, again?” 

Jen makes a face. “God, I don’t know. Amber’s in middle school, I think. And the boys are maybe, like...four to ten? Somewhere in there. Justin’s older, they both still believe in Santa Clause, that’s all I know.” 

Judy laughs. This time when the quiet settles, Judy starts humming along to the radio. Jen turns up the volume, because fuck it, if Judy wants to sing Christmas carols, she should get to sing goddamn Christmas carols. 

+

Jen will never admit it to her dad, but she takes a wrong turn off of Interstate 278 and gets them lost for almost twenty minutes. Even with the extra time, Jen waits until the last possible moment for the other talk they need to have. 

Jen’s parallel parked – badly – on her street, and Judy undoes her seatbelt and starts to open the door before Jen cuts her off, “Hey, um. Hold on a second.” 

There’s a flash of a moment when Judy looks almost worried, but then her eyes clear and she just looks at Jen expectantly, “Yeah?”

“Just a heads up…” The car is off but Jen’s still holding onto the steering wheel, just to have something to do with her hands. She should be better at saying this by now; it’s been fucking long enough that she’s had to. “My mom, she’s….she’s kind of been sick?”

It comes out sounding like a question, which is fucking hilarious; if there’s one inarguable certainty about the past nine years, it’s that Jen’s mom is sick. 

“Oh, no.” Judy’s eyes widen in concern, and she casts an uncertain glance out the window toward Jen’s house. “Seriously, Jen, if it’s too much trouble...your mom shouldn’t have to worry about an extra houseguest if she’s not feeling well. I _really_ don’t mind staying at the guys’ apartment if that’s easier, at least until she’s better.” 

Jen nearly laughs; they’d be waiting a _long_ time for that to be the case, but it’s not Judy’s fault she misunderstood. Of course most people hear _sick_ and think of a cold or, if they’re a real pessimist, the flu. 

She shakes her head. “Never mind, it’s nothing like that. It’s fine. And you’re fucking staying here, okay? Stop trying to get out of it.” 

Judy still looks uncertain, so Jen meets her eyes and repeats, “Seriously, forget it. It’s all good.” 

It’s a shitty way to do this, letting Judy find out on her own, but it’s also undeniably easier. 

Jen opens the trunk and helps Judy lift her suitcase out of it, then points out which of the narrow, squashed together townhouses is hers. 

They’re greeted by a blaring episode of _Doug_ when they step through the front door, into the living room where Justin and Nathan are sprawled out on their stomachs, less than three feet away from the television and still have it up to maximum volume, multitasking with Legos as they watch the episode. Jen ignores their presence, though she hears Judy saying hi from behind her, and follows the smell of pot roast to the kitchen. Might as well get this over with. 

“Just leave your suitcase by the stairs,” Jen tells Judy, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she’s following. 

Her mom and Aunt Susan are in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, their wine glasses within reach on the counter. They turn around at the same time when Jen and Judy walk in, and Jen feels a rush of resentment at her aunt’s presence. She sort of hates seeing Susan and her mom together – sisters only two years apart in age, they would look eerily alike if it weren’t for Susan’s blonde hair and twenty extra, healthy pounds. They’re a living Before and After. 

Susan exhales. Her shoulders sag, momentarily relieved of their constant holiday tension. “Oh, thank Heaven! We thought you girls would miss dinner.”

“Nice vote of confidence,” Jen murmurs.

“We were just worried,” her mother clarifies.

Judy’s eyes dart to Jen’s, wide and vivid with a shocked sort of sympathy Jen’s learned to recognize. Jen looks away, an old, instinctive embarrassment slithering around her gut. She really wishes she could outgrow that feeling; when her mom’s cancer came back the first time, breaking into their lives after a year and a half of remission and normalcy, Jen had just started sixth grade and was firmly tangled in the thorniest thicket of early adolescence, that stage where a parent’s very existence is a humiliating indignity. She’d treated her mom’s cancer as just another thing to be embarrassed about, something _uncool_ , no different than her dad’s bad jokes or his habit of honking the horn after he dropped her off at school.

Jen had stopped inviting friends over, not wanting to risk them witnessing her mom camped out on the floor of the bathroom after a chemo treatment. She’d hated being seen with her mom in public, her colorful head scarves begging for the wrong kind of attention at dance recitals or Parent Teacher Nights. Jen’s mom has never liked wigs – she likes to say she’d rather have no hair than the _wrong_ hair – and Jen used to beg her to reconsider that stance, at least when leaving the house. 

She tries not to think too much about how she acted back then, but now, with Judy right beside her realizing exactly what kind of _sick_ she meant, Jen’s face is hot and her teeth are clenched and she feels thrown back in time – her shitty twelve year old self has taken over her body, like pain in a phantom limb. 

Judy, though, recovers quickly and is grinning full wattage at Jen’s mom. “It’s really great to meet you, Mrs. Russell. Thanks so much for letting me stay.” 

“We’re happy you’re here, hon, Jen’s told us so much about you...just do me a favor and call me Maggie.” Her mom smiles warmly at Judy, then turns to introduce her to Susan. 

+

Making a good first impression in someone else’s home is something Judy’s worked hard at, honing the skill over a series of foster homes and foster parents. She’s developed an acute sense of being unwelcome and unwanted, could always tell the moment an adult had second thoughts about taking her in. She’s whittled down her extremes through trial and error, perfecting the tightrope walk that is making people like her. 

Don’t talk too much, but don’t be totally silent, either. Seem grateful, but not needy. Smile, but not like _that_ , not so big and constant.

She’s especially glad for the deep roots of these instincts today, because they take over, keeping her talking (not too much) and smiling (not like _that_ ) even as she’s trying to absorb the reality of Jen’s home life being vastly different than the picturequese existence she imagined.

“Everything’s ready to go on the table. The biscuits only need a few more minutes.” Susan announces, proudly basting the pot roast in thick, brown glaze. “Jennifer, can you tell your cousins to wash up? Lord knows what those boys’ hands have been in.”

Jen scrunches her nose. Maggie cups Judy’s shoulder. “I hope you didn’t fill up on airplane snacks. Those little pretzels are my favorite,” she whispers.

“Do you know what kind of chemicals they put in those things to keep them that fresh that high up in the air?” Susan asks.

“Probably the same ones they put in that cow,” Jen answers, nodding towards the stove. Susan shoots her an icy look over her shoulder. Judy presses her lips together to keep from laughing. Maggie gives into a smirk.

“Older sisters,” she sighs and looks at Jen. “Why don’t you help Judy take her things to your room? We’ll give her the nickel tour after dinner.”

Judy follows Jen up the stairs, dragging her suitcase behind her. As soon as they’re out of earshot of any of her family members, Jen starts talking in a quick, nervous stream of logistics, “Aunt Susan’s in the guest room, so you’ll have to stay in my room at least until they leave on Christmas. Don’t worry, though, the kids sleep in the basement. Oh, and my Grandpa from Philadelphia stays over on Christmas Eve, so that night we’ll probably have to sleep on the pull out. Fair warning, it’s _not_ comfortable. It’s also right by the Christmas tree, so the kids’ll probably wake us up at like six fucking am to get their yearly video game consule from ‘Santa.’ Sorry, I know I was supposed to be _saving_ from you weeks of couch surfing, but it’ll be better here once Christmas is over and everyone leaves.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Judy assures her. “I can sleep anywhere.”

They’ve reached the top of the steps, and Jen leads the way down the narrow hallway to the last door on the left. It’s already halfway open, but before Judy’s gotten even a glimpse of the bedroom, she hears Jen snap, “What the hell, Amber, I already told you you’re _not_ staying in my room this year.” 

Judy pulls her suitcase into the bedroom and sees a middle school version of Jen sitting on the bed, wearing a scowl and an arm full of colorful snap bracelets. “Aunt Maggie _said_ I could hang out in here while you were at the airport.” 

“Good for you! I’m clearly not at the airport anymore, so guess it’s time for you to get out.” 

Amber, making no move to get off the bed, gives Jen a withering look before turning her narrowed gaze on Judy. 

“Hi!” Judy says, going for a winning smile. “You must be Amber...I’m Judy, I go to school with your cousin.” 

“I _know_ that,” Amber says haughtily. “You’re her _roommate_. Are you really from California?” 

“I am.”

“Like _Hollywood_ , California?” 

Jen rolls her eyes at Judy and takes her suitcase out of the doorway, setting it on the ground by the foot of her bed while Judy smiles and answers, “Not too far.” 

Amber’s whole face transforms into an eager grin, and she scoots closer to the edge of the bed to talk. “Do you see famous people, like, all the time?” 

Behind Amber, Jen nods fervently, and Judy answers, “Um, not _all_ the time, since there weren’t too many celebrities living in the neighborhood where I lived. But I did work at a coffee shop for a little while in high school, and sometimes we’d get customers that were pretty famous.” 

“Like who?” 

Judy thinks for a second. “Kathy Bates came in pretty often.”

Amber wrinkles her nose in confusion. “Who’s that?”

“She’s – “

Jen cuts Judy off. “She’s Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s agent.” Amber’s eyes light up, and Jen huffs out a scoffing sound, mock judgmental. “I thought you’d have heard of her.” 

“I’ve _heard_ of her, I just forgot her name for like a _second_ ,” Amber protests indignantly, shooting Jen a dirty look before focusing on Judy, all smiles again. “Was JTT ever with her?” 

This time when Jen starts nodding behind Amber’s back, Judy mimics the nod without thinking about it. “Yeah, yep. Like, all the time.” 

This information causes Amber to launch off the bed with an excited shriek. “That’s _so cool_. Who else?” 

“Um…” Judy looks to Jen for help.

“Your mom said to send you downstairs, we’re about to eat,” Jen says, coming over to physically herd Amber toward the door. 

“I call sitting next to Judy at dinner,” Amber manages to call out before Jen gets her into the hallway and closes the door in her face.

Jen turns to face Judy again. “Thank God you’re here. Gets me out of a multi-day slumber party with Amber.” 

Judy frowns. “She can still stay in here if that was the plan...I really am fine with a couch, or a recliner, or whatever. I didn’t mean to kick her out.”

“ _I_ meant for you to kick her out,” Jen says bluntly. “It’s not like you being here means her sleeping bag won’t fit on my floor. I just needed an excuse to evict her...she’ll be fine in the basement with Brat One and Brat Two.” 

Judy half smiles at her. “What’s Amber? Brat Three?” 

“Oh no, she’s been upgraded from brat. If you’re old enough to wear that much frosted lip gloss, you’re old enough to be called a bitch.” 

Judy raises her eyebrows. “Wow, you _really_ don’t like your cousins.” 

“Give it a day, you’ll see why. Amber especially...she’s gotten even worse since their dad went to prison.” 

“Their dad’s in prison?” Judy asks, sympathy blooming in her chest. Jen’s cousins are so young to be going through that.

Jen just rolls her eyes. “Yep, good ‘ol Uncle Mike did some kind of embezzle fraud bank shit from his company. I don’t really know the details, but Aunt Susan told the kids he’s innocent. Shocking twist: he’s _not_. Anyway. Now that she has daddy issues, Aunt Susan lets Amber get away with anything. You _have_ to sit with her at dinner by the way, God forbid she fucking _calls_ something and doesn’t get it. C’mon, we better get down there.”

Jen pushes her bedroom door open again, and Judy obediently follows her into the hallway. Jen’s talking more than usual, like she doesn’t want to let the silence settle long enough for the subject to shift to her mom. Judy decides not to ask her any questions until Jen brings it up herself. 

This time, following Jen down the hallway, Judy tries to get a better look at the photographs lining both sides of the walls. She gets a few glimpses of tiny blonde Jen in sequined dance outfits or tomboy T-shirts, but there are too many and Jen’s walking too fast for Judy to linger over them. She has to remind herself she’ll have plenty of time to look – this isn’t a two nights only visit.

Someone’s turned on the golden lights draped around the Christmas tree set up in front of the living room’s picture window. Judy breathes in deep, savoring the scent of pine – she’s only been in a house with a real Christmas tree once, at Lisa and Grayson’s, her second set of foster parents. The one Christmas Judy spent with them, they’d had four different fir trees in four rooms of the house, all of them tall but skinny and strung with white lights, the ornaments carefully selected, either silver or gold, depending on which tree. 

It had been gorgeous there, but Judy likes Jen’s family’s tree even better: it's nearly as wide as it is tall, so overstuffed with ornaments that some of the branches are sagging. The ornaments don’t seem to match or follow any particular theme, and even at a glance Judy can pick out a dozen hand crafted additions. Jen walks right past the tree, but Judy casts a longing look at it as they pass; she’d like to look at every ornament, ask Jen the story behind each one, but it’s okay. She’ll have time later.

The whole living room has a warm, golden glow, every surface strung with holly entwined with Christmas lights and bookended with plastic bulbed candles. Judy’s eyes roam the room eagerly, wanting to soak in every detail. 

They’re the only ones in the living room now, the television (which is surrounded by its own strand of garland and lights, with a pair of snow globes at each corner) turned off and legos abandoned on the floor. The townhouse is narrow but long, and Judy can hear voices overlapping from further back in the house, in the direction of the kitchen.

“Your decorations are gorgeous,” Judy tells Jen.

“My aunt did a lot of it,” Jen says in a flat voice. “Literally just since she got here this morning...she always gets too fucking intense about Christmas when she’s here.” 

Jen doesn’t sound happy about that, but Judy barely registers it; she’s just noticed the stockings dangling over the fireplace. She can pick out the different sets: three for Jen and her parents, all of them embroidered with an idyllic Christmas scene and a name – Jen, Maggie, Henry – in red cursive, four for Jen’s aunt and cousins, those classic red with the names written in green glitter glue. On the end, crowded in next to the one that says _Jen_ , is a green felt stocking with the name _Judy_ printed in block letters, and the sight of it makes Judy’s heart take an extra beat.

“You coming?” Jen asks, turning back and seeing Judy has stopped following her. She seems to trace Judy’s gaze to the stocking, because her voice softens and the corners of her mouth tug upward and she says, “Oh, yeah...my aunt didn’t get that one.” 

Judy swallows against a sudden tightness in her throat, and she might have stood there staring at the stocking – _her_ stocking – all night if she didn’t hear Jen say, “Dad, c’mere...this is Judy.” 

Judy jerks her eyes away from the fireplace and gets her smile in place just as Jen’s father reaches the foot of the stairs. He’s a tall, burly man with a thick mustache; he looks like he should be on _NYPD Blue_ or _Hill Street Blues_ , playing someone tough and serious and street smart, except for the fact that he’s cradling a small, adorable dog in one arm.

“Hi, Mr. Russell,” Judy says; she’s trying for _courteous houseguest_ voice, but she’s feeling a little frazzled, suddenly, realizing she didn’t even mention the plane ticket when she met Jen’s mother. She has to fix that. “Thanks so much for having me, and for everything you did arranging the plane tickets...I told Jen, but I promise I’ll pay you back for the change.” 

Jen’s father looks slightly taken aback at that. “Oh, don’t worry about that...just glad someone’s finally got some use out all those airline miles.” He’s got a deep voice threaded through with a heavy Brooklyn accent. Dark hair and dark eyes, he doesn’t look much like Jen – Judy could see the uncanny resemblance to both her mom and aunt – but when he offers his free hand to shake, he smiles Jen’s exact smile, and Judy can’t help but return it. “Good to meet you, Judy. Call me Hank...and call this guy Yogi.” 

He lifts the dog slightly for emphasis, and Judy reaches out and pets him behind the ears, melting immediately. “Like Yogi bear?” 

“Close. Berr- _a_. Best catcher the MLB ever saw.” 

Judy nods as if that makes any sense to her, still enamored with the puppy’s big eyes and soft fur. “He’s so cute...” 

“He’s a handsome fella alright,” Hank says proudly. “Long haired piebald dapple dachshund.”

Judy smiles at Jen. “You didn’t tell me you have a dog!” 

Jen makes a face. “I don’t know him that well.” 

“They aren’t close,” Hank explains at the same moment, and it makes Judy laugh. “We got him a couple months before Jen graduated.” 

“Rebound dog,” Jen says darkly, but she seems to be at least partially joking, wrestling back a smirk before her dad passes the dog unceremoniously into her arms.

Off Judy’s confused look, Hank nods for her to follow him. There’s another wall crowded with framed photos above the TV, but when they’re close enough to see Hank points to the centerpiece of the display: a German Shepard sitting regally on the townhouse's front stoop. 

“We had Willy since Jen was in kindergarten,” Hank tells her. “Had to put him down about a year ago.” 

Judy looks at Jen when she says, “I’m really sorry.” 

“Right around Thanksgiving, wasn’t it? Waited a few months to get Yogi.” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “ _T_ _wo_ months.”

Judy looks back at the photo, noticing a tiny golden plate below the photo that reads: _Wilbur “Willy” Russell: Some Dog_. 

“Some dog?” Judy reads aloud, throwing Jen a questioning look. 

Jen groans, but her dad grins. “Jen picked the name Wilbur from – “

“– from _Charlotte’s Web_ ,” Jen finishes over top of him, a long suffering expression on her face. “Yes, I named a dog after a fictional pig. Yes, it’s hilarious. I was _five_. God.” 

Hank chuckles, and Judy bites back a smile. Someone, either Jen’s mom or aunt, calls out from the kitchen that dinner’s ready; Hank pats his daughter on the shoulder and heads to the kitchen, but not before taking Yogi back and tucking the dog comfortably under his arm.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jen rounds on Judy, arching an eyebrow. “Are you about to laugh at my dead dog’s name?” 

“I would _never_.”

“Then what’s with that look?” 

“Your accent.” 

Jen’s face turns combative. “I don’t have one of those.” 

Judy shrugs innocently, “Okay. Guess I imagined it.” She purses her lips, pushing them forward in an attempted imitation, “ _Named a dawg aft-uh a fictional pig…_ ”

Jen’s mouth drops open, perfectly round and offended. “I do _not_ sound like that. This is like...regional bullying.” 

“It’s not bullying if I like it! Which I do. It makes you sound tough.” 

“I _am_ tough.” 

“I know you are,” Judy says. It comes out less teasing, more honest. 

Jen’s smile slips, and she holds Judy’s eyes for a moment, a silent acknowledgement passing between them, and then Jen looks away, inclining her head toward the kitchen. “We should get in there...before someone else takes your seat beside Amber.” 

Judy follows Jen down the hall, to where the kitchen opens up into an attached dining room. Jen’s cousins are already sitting, and Amber immediately indicates the open seat to her left. “Judy, sit here, remember? Mom!” she calls out across the kitchen. “Judy _knows_ Jonathan Taylor Thomas.” 

Susan raises her eyebrows, setting plates in front of her sons, and looks at Judy with interest. “Really?”

“Um, not really _personally_ ,” Judy says weakly, aware of Jen snickering as she takes the seat on Judy’s other side. 

“We just love _Home Improvement_ ,” Susan tells her.

“It’s a good show,” Judy says, nodding in automatic agreement and fervently hoping there are no follow up questions.

Maggie catches Judy’s eye and winks, like she knows Judy’s lying and doesn’t mind it, before passing her and Jen plates of pot roast, surrounded by a bed of onions, potatoes, and carrots. 

“ _Mom_ ,” Jen frowns up at her. “I told you guys, Judy doesn’t eat meat.” 

Heat rushes to the surface of Judy’s skin, all at once, and Jen’s barely finished talking before Judy hurries to correct her, “It’s fine, I’m really not that strict about it.” 

Jen ignores her, turning her critical glare to include her aunt. “I told both of you that, this _morning_.”

Susan huffs out an exhale, clearly offended. “We’ve only had about a hundred things to do today, Jennifer, without any help from _you_ , by the way – “

Jen’s face twists scornfully. “I wasn’t even _here_ – “

Maggie rolls her eyes and cuts her off. “Okay, okay, let’s at least _try_ to make it to dessert before the first holiday standoff.” She meets Judy’s eyes and smiles apologetically. “Judy, honey, I can throw a salad together for you, or maybe a grilled cheese – “

“No, really, this is fine...everything looks delicious,” Judy insists, a desperate edge to her voice now. She reaches for a basket at the center of the table and plucks a biscuit from it to add to her plate. “This is plenty, and I cheat at holidays anyway. Really, I’m fine. Thank you though.” 

“Well, if you’re sure,” Maggie says, taking her own seat across the table. “But help yourself to anything in the kitchen, okay?” 

“I will.” Judy hates how tense her smile feels, hates feeling all the attention on her, none of it good. Jen is frowning at her, and on her other side, Judy’s new friend Amber is regarding her with a suspicious and familiar preteen look, like she’s just realized she’s befriended a Weird Girl. 

“Why don’t you eat meat?” Amber asks.

“I do,” Judy blurts out, stupidly. She hears Jen sigh.

Unexpectedly, it’s Jen’s Aunt Susan who comes to Judy’s rescue, deflecting attention by admonishing her youngest son, “Nathan, we don’t eat before we say grace.” 

The little boy guiltily snatches his hands back from his plate; Jen and her dad do the same thing.

Susan clasps her hands and closes her eyes, head bowed. Jen crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, performatively disinterested. Judy, though, follows suit with the rest of Jen’s family, assuming the prayer position. 

“Dear Lord, we just thank you for this chance to come together once again as a family…” 

Judy is trying to listen to Susan when someone pokes her in the temple. Her eyes open to find Jen’s fingers fluttering in front of her face. Judy unclasps her hands to move Jen’s away from her, trying not to smile. Jen smirks at her and, while her aunt talks about the reason for the season, rolls her eyes heavenward; Judy kicks her (gently) on the shin. Jen mimes a gasp, then mouths, _close your_ _eyes_ _,_ expression mock stern, until Susan says, “– thank You for keeping Maggie with us for another Christmas, and we ask that You continue to bless her and heal her through this holy season...” 

The teasing evaporates from Jen’s face and she looks away, the line of her jaw so tense and angry that Judy makes herself tune out Susan’s voice; instead of refolding her hands, she reaches out and touches Jen’s arm. 

Jen relaxes beneath the touch, but still doesn’t look at her, so Judy chances closing her eyes and winging her own kind of prayer: hope, offered up to whatever piece of the universe might be listening. 

Judy is hoping so, _so_ hard that Jen is going to tell her that her mom’s cancer is the most treatable kind, that they caught it early and it’s almost gone. She is hoping Jen is living the least sad version of this story.

“Amen.” 

Everyone lifts their heads, muttering an echo to the _amen_ – except for Jen’s dad, who seems to have already started eating during the prayer – before digging into their food. 

“So, Judy,” Susan immediately directs her gaze from across the table. “Are you in the dance program with Jen?” 

“Oh, no, I’m just an art major.” 

“ _I_ _’m_ a dancer,” Amber informs her. 

“You’re a Pee Wee cheerleader, Amber,” Jen cuts in before Judy can respond. “Not the same thing.” 

Amber scowls. “Well, by next year, I’ll be a _middle school_ cheerleader.” 

“Still not a dancer.” 

Maggie raises her voice above the argument and efficiently cutting it short. “Judy, what’s the UNY art program like? Do you have a concentration already or is it more generalized in the beginning?” 

“Oh, um, there are a lot of introductory courses required before we pick a concentration, photography, sculpture, everything...right now my only studio class is for drawing, plus I’m in Art History. And a lot of gen eds. Um...” Judy looks at Jen, wary of talking too much about herself. “It’s nothing like Jen’s schedule...she makes me feel lazy.” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “Okay, but you doing gen eds means you have to actually _study_ every night. I barely even did that before finals.” 

“That’s our smart girl,” Hank says dryly.

Jen ignores him. “Plus you work dinner shifts three fucking days a week – “

The kids giggle at the curse while Susan hisses Jen’s name in horror and Maggie gives her daughter a look torn between amusement and admonishment. 

“Three _freaking_ days a week,” Jen corrects with a martyred expression. “ _And_ you’ve been painting on your own. You’re not lazy.” 

Judy’s cheeks are warm, and she flashes Jen a quick, thankful look, trying to think of a question to ask anyone else at the table, but Maggie gives her a friendly smile and says, sounding genuinely interested, “So does that mean painting’s your specialty?” 

Jen makes a face at her mom. “Her _specialty_?” 

“ _Yes_ , Jen, like how we all know contemporary is your specialty.” 

“I think they say it’s their _thang_ , Mags.”

Jen looks so disgusted Judy can’t help giggling. “We really, really don’t, Dad. Jesus.” 

“I guess painting is my, um. My thing.” Beside her, Jen chokes on a laugh; Judy bites back a smile and looks earnestly at Maggie. “ _Specialty_ kinda sounds like I’m much better at it than I am, since I haven’t even had a class for painting yet, but it’s what I’ve done the most. Well, besides drawing.” 

“Can you draw people?” Amber asks. Without waiting for an answer, she adds, “Could you do a drawing of _me_?” 

“Sure, I just need – “

“I want a drawing, too,” says Brat One, whose real name, Judy is pretty sure, is Justin. 

His younger brother (Nathan?) pipes up, “Me, too!” 

Soon, Judy’s promised portraits for all three kids, in between answering Maggie’s questions about her current drawing class. The conversation moves on, with Susan wanting to hear more about how school is going for Jen; questions about the campus and the dorm and the city, usually expanded to include Judy. 

When Judy worries she’s talking too much, taking up too much attention, she tries to turn conversations around, asking questions instead of answering them. That’s how she learns about the photography elective Maggie took in college, and about Hank’s long ago business trip to California, and how much Susan loves living in Maine, and the ages of Jen’s cousins (Amber is twelve, Justin is eight, Nathan is six), plus the names of their current teachers. She likes the crowded table and the overlapping conversations, and after a while Judy even stops cutting herself off after a couple sentences, forgetting to worry. 

Hank and Maggie are prompting Nathan through a recap of his recent T-ball season when Judy realizes everyone else is nearly finished eating. Panic buzzes through her, and she looks down at the whole, untouched pot roast, now alone on her plate. Judy starts cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces, her stomach coiling tighter every time the knife slices through meat.

Jen notices and leans over, her voice barely audible, “You don’t have to eat that.” 

“It’s fine,” Judy murmurs back, because it is. She had decided to become a vegetarian when she was in third grade and her teacher had honestly answered a series of increasingly distressed questions about where chicken nuggets came from. But by her second foster home, she stopped telling foster parents she didn’t want to eat meat. She still never ate it at school, or at restaurants if there was a choice, but at home, Judy would eat anything her foster parents cooked. It would have been ungrateful not to, to be picky about food in a house that wasn’t even really hers. 

She can eat meat…it’s just been awhile. Judy had lived in the apartment with her mom for most of her senior year, where she’d been in charge of grocery shopping and cooking, and then in the dorm for the last semester, where the dining hall has plenty of vegetarian options. 

She pushes the pot roast around the plate, swallowing and trying to work herself up to it, when suddenly Jen’s fork stabs at Judy’s plate. 

It’s loaded with pot roast when Jen pulls away, and Judy’s eyes dart around the table, but no one seems to have noticed. Jen eats about half of what’s left, and Judy pushes the rest around the plate with her fork, spreading it out enough that she doesn’t feel like a horrible, obvious liar telling Maggie and Susan how much she enjoyed dinner. 

+

“You have so many trophies!” 

Judy smiles at Jen from in front of her curio cabinet, having immediately set about exploring Jen’s bedroom as soon as they walked in this time. 

“Most of them don’t really mean anything,” Jen says dismissively as Judy takes in the many plastic gold dancers. “When I was a kid they gave us trophies at the end of every recital, or dance camp session, or any other excuse. They’re basically participation awards.” 

“What happened to that one?” Judy jams a finger at the glass to point, but Jen’s just flopped down on her bed and doesn't want to get back up.

“You can open it, you know,” Jen tells her. “It’s not a museum.” 

“ _This_ one.” Judy pulls open the cabinet door and takes out one of the ballerina trophies, holding it up for Jen to see. “She doesn’t look so good.”

“Oh.” Jen smirks. Her _fingernail_ is what happened to that one; she’d scratched the cheap gold paint off the ballerina’s faceless head, leaving an angry swirl of black instead. “Some kids cut off their Barbies' hair...I went for the face of a plastic ballerina. That’s how you can tell they only spent like two fucking dollars on these.” 

“It’s nice you still display her,” Judy says with a grin. She turns her back to Jen, putting the trophy back in its place and continues to peruse. A few moments pass before Judy speaks again, her voice echoing from the cabinet. “So we’re sharing your bed?” 

“Yeah,” Jen says, a flood of doubt immediately chasing the answer. She didn’t think that was weird, but she’s admittedly out of touch with sleepover protocol: she hasn’t had a friend spend the night since elementary school, a million years ago before her mom got sick, and save for attending a few ‘slumber party’ birthdays in middle school, the kind with so many girls the bed wasn’t even in play, she never slept over at other people’s houses, either. “I mean, unless...if you’d rather not, we can stack up some sleeping bags or something, maybe switch off…” 

“Oh, I don’t mind sharing the bed,” Judy says, a clear smile in her voice. She turns around to face Jen, holding up a Homecoming Queen crown and sash. “I just wanted to know if I’m about to sleep with, like, the _coolest_ girl in school.” 

Jen groans and drops her face flat onto her mattress. “My mom must’ve snuck that in there…” 

“I’m glad she did... _Your Majesty_ ,” Judy teases. When Jen turns her face enough to look at her, Judy’s got the crown on her head and is admiring herself in Jen’s vanity mirror. “Were you also voted Most Popular?” 

“ _No_ ,” Jen says grumpily. “Take the fucking thing off...you shouldn’t support monarchies.” 

Judy laughs but obeys, replacing the crown and sash inside the cabinet before coming to stretch out on the bed beside Jen. She flutters her eyelashes at her. “In _bed_ with the homecoming queen….dreams do come true.”

“I hate you.” 

“I think it’s really nice!” Judy tells her, sincere now. “And you know, it’s not really a monarchy since students vote. You were democratically elected.”

“Yeah, with pity votes,” Jen says glibly. Judy’s face folds in confusion, and Jen rolls over so she’s flat on her back and looking up at her to explain, “My mom wasn’t doing great at the time, so. Guess people thought nothing would cheer me up like being forced to go to a fucking football game to get a plastic crown.”

“Oh,” Judy’s whole face gentles, going so soft and worried it’s hard to look at. She hesitates before asking, “Is your mom...is she going to be okay?” 

“Probably, at some point.” Jen’s mouth flattens into a grim smile, and she aims her gaze at the ceiling. “Then she’ll get sick again, because that’s what always happens.” 

Judy stays quiet after that, and when Jen chances a look at her, she can see questions piling up behind her eyes. 

Jen sighs and sits up. “Look, none of this is new. She first got sick when I was nine...breast cancer, technically, but she got rid of those six years ago and it still finds places to come back.” 

“I’m sorry.” Judy says in a small voice.

“It’s really fine, it’s, like...the way things are, pretty much. I just didn’t want to talk about it. I’ve had eight fucking years of talking about it, and it was nice to finally be somewhere where it wasn’t the main thing people knew about me.” 

“I get that,” Judy says earnestly. “Really.” 

Jen meets her eyes. “Kinda funny we were both hiding shit about our moms. Well. More sad than funny.” 

“I’m sorry,” Judy says. “I really didn’t mean to _hide_ anything...I’d just rather tell you the _good_ stuff about my mom, you know? Before I moved here, with us living together again...it really was one of the best years I’ve had with her.” 

Jen’s mind snags on the phrase _living together again_ , reminding her how much she still doesn’t know. She slides back on her bed, leaning against the pillows and the headboard; settling in.

“Jude?” 

Judy tilts her head expectantly. She’s on her stomach, chin propped on the heel of her hand. 

Jen feels the muscles in her face tighten, an apologetic grimace, before she finally asks, “How come you were in foster homes?” 

The light in Judy’s eyes dims by degrees, but she doesn’t hesitate before answering, “My mom was in prison for a while.” 

“Jesus.” Jen blinks at her, startled. “What for?” 

“Um…” Judy makes the kind of face that suggests a long and complicated story. “Well. Okay, so there had always been drugs around, from what I can remember. I don’t know that my mom had an actual _problem_. It was just, like...it was always part of things, with her friends, or most of the guys she was sleeping with.”

Jen nods, unsurprised. Drug use fits with everything Judy said in the car earlier – fits with the kind of mom who would leave her kid home alone for days.

“When I was maybe ten, I think...we moved in with this guy Phoenix she’d been on and off with a couple times.” 

Jen makes a face. “ _Phoenix?"_

“Yeah. I think he was from Phoenix.” 

“Should’ve guessed.” 

“Phoenix was already a dealer, and when we moved in and he was suddenly Mom’s real _boyfriend_ , she started helping him. It wasn’t just her...a bunch of their friends worked together. They’d come over and I’d have to stay out of the kitchen while they worked, but they even sent me for deliveries sometimes...Phoenix sold to a few people who lived in the building, or at least close by.” 

Jen holds her face still and her teeth clenched, doing her best not to react to the news that Judy was apparently a kid drug dealer.

“We actually lived at Phoenix’s for awhile…” Judy continues. “It had been almost two years. So I was eleven. Mom and Phoenix had friends over late one night after they’d been working, it turned into a kind of a party. I actually liked when they had people over late, because then I got to be the one to sleep in the bedroom. I was supposed to be asleep, but I always wanted to stay up watching TV when I was in there, and it was hard to sleep until they turned off their music...but anyway, it was really late when Missy came in.”

Judy’s face pinches, her voice stalling for the first time in the story; it looks like she’s just remembered the ending. “She was one of my Mom’s best friends. I’d known her for longer than most everybody else there. She came into the room and I could tell she was high...but not like normal. She’d thrown up on herself, and it was like she didn’t even see me sitting there. She was talking, I think, just to herself, but I couldn’t even understand her. She kind of fell down on the bed, but she didn’t make it all the way so she kind of slid to the floor. And then she just stayed there, like she didn’t even know the difference. 

“I’d never seen anybody that bad before. I went out and tried to talk to my mom, but she said Missy just needed to sleep it off...I don’t think I explained it right. Mom thought I was mad about having to share the bed. Which I really wouldn’t have minded! So when I told her Missy was on the floor, not even the bed, Mom just said that was good, and that I needed to go back in there. So I did. And Missy was still on the floor.” 

Judy starts talking faster, distress threaded through the words. “I watched TV for a little bit longer, I _waited_ , it wasn’t until a commercial that I turned on the light to check on Missy again. Her skin didn’t look right, and I couldn’t tell if she was breathing...so I grabbed her wrist and tried to find a pulse but I couldn’t and I got really, really scared. There was a phone in the bedroom, so I called 911.” 

For a second, Jen’s lungs relax, exhaling gusts of relief as she remembers this is a story about Judy’s mother going to prison. It’s a story about drug dealers getting arrested for drug dealing; no one has to die for it to make sense.

But then Judy keeps going. “Paramedics showed up, and the police, but Missy was already gone. I think she....she was probably _dead_ before I even called.” 

Judy’s voice breaks, and something pulls tights in Jen’s chest. “Judy, hey...you can stop, okay? You don’t have to keep talking about it.” 

Blinking back tears, Judy shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I want to tell you.” 

“Fine, but just…” Jen extends her arm as far as she can, falling a few inches short of Judy’s head. She inclines her head toward the space beside her. “Come over here, okay?” 

Judy smiles this tiny smile, a crack of light that scatters the shadows that have settled into her expression, and sits up, coming to sit beside Jen. She has to move a few of the pointless, decorative throw pillows off the bed; Jen only even made her bed today because Judy was coming. 

Judy draws an unsteady breath, and Jen shifts beside her so their shoulders are touching. “They arrested everybody who was at the apartment, and took me to this short term group home to spend the night. I didn’t even get to talk to my mom before…” Judy’s voice is shaking again; Jen grabs her hand and holds on. 

“I just kept thinking about how I should’ve called sooner...if Missy hadn’t died, maybe it would have been okay, but instead...all I did was get my mom and everybody else in trouble.” 

Furious protests start to stack up in Jen’s throat, but she can’t bring herself to interrupt Judy.

“I don’t really know the details of all the legal stuff, but...my mom and Phoenix were going to be the ones facing serious charges, since they lived there and there was evidence of the business. I didn’t know this for awhile – my mom told me after the trial, one of the first times she let me visit – that she took most of the blame, I guess, so Phoenix wouldn’t be as mad at me. She said since I was the one who made the call, since it was my fault...she should be the one with the most time.

“Mom had always told me what to say if cops asked about drug stuff...I _knew_ to tell them I’d never seen anything. But I didn’t get to see my mom before the trial, and I thought the drug stuff the police found was the only thing they were in trouble for. The prosecutor, she was really nice to me, and she just kept saying that all I had to do was tell the truth about what happened with Missy. So I did, I said everything, including the fact that I tried to talk to my mom when Missy first came into the bedroom...and I guess since they already knew she’d gotten the drugs there, at the apartment...my mom ended up getting convicted of manslaughter.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jen breathes out the single syllable. It hadn’t been what she was expecting. “So...how many years do you get for that?” 

“I’d turned twelve by the time the trial happened, and she got out when I was seventeen….that was out on parole, though, so it could have been longer.” Judy’s voice fades a little, eyes lowering. “She was pretty mad at me for most of that.” 

“Oh fuck _that_ , Judy,” Jen says heatedly. “None of that was your fault, okay? Not Missy overdosing, not anybody getting arrested, and _definitely_ not your mom _choosing_ to take the fall for fucking _Arizona_ or whatever the hell his name is.” 

“Arizona?”

“You know. Phoenix, Arizona.” 

“Oh.” Judy forces a thin, obligatory smile, but that’s all Jen gets out of her. 

“Hey, I’m serious,” Jen realizes she’s still holding Judy’s hand; she gently loosens her grip and pulls away, then rakes her hand absently through her own hair. “You did the right thing. Your mom shouldn’t have blamed you.” 

“Maybe,” Judy agrees softly, but her eyes are dull, like Jen’s telling her something she’s heard before but never believed. 

“How many foster families did you have?” Jen asks tentatively. 

“Six,” Judy answers immediately. She’s sitting with her legs folded beneath her, on top of Jen’s comforter, and she starts tracing the colorful stack of anklets around her left foot. 

“And that woman you were staying with last night, in California...she was in one of those?” 

“Sadie,” Judy says. Her expression is clearing a little, and Jen’s glad she asked the question. “Yeah, she was already living in the first home I was placed in...she was seventeen and couldn’t wait to age out, but she really looked out for me when I was there. Gave me some tips for dealing with social workers and group home staffs...she also gave me my first cigarettes.” 

Jen huffs a laugh, less out of amusement than relief that Judy’s talked them somewhere easier, less raw. 

Judy’s still playing with her anklets. “Sadie’d been in, like, _thirteen_ different foster homes. She had this lid that was broken off an old jewelry box...like the kind a kid gets, with a ballerina inside. It was from when she used to live with her dad. She used a pocket knife to carve the names of all the foster parents she’d had. It took a couple months before she showed me that, but she said a lot of the older kids had lists like that. This one guy she knew, Owen, gave himself point and stick tattoo tally marks every time he got a new placement.” 

“Hardcore.”

“I thought Sadie was _so_ cool, so I wanted to do everything she said I should. So I made this….” She lowers her eyes, and Jen follows them, watching as Judy hooks her finger around one of the anklets: it’s only two colors, yellow and purple thread gone ratty and threadbare with age. “...for Miss Brenda’s house, where I met Sadie. There were always a lot of other kids there, which was nice, and Miss Brenda was a really good cook.”

Judy slides the anklet lower around her ankle, separating it from the others, and touches the next one up. “This was from the Tates, Lisa and Grayson. They let me decorate my own room. That one ended kind of fast, so I had to go back to the short term place for about a month...I’d been really scared when I first stayed there, but it was kind of nice to go back and have most of the workers there remember me. I stayed there two more times, I think, between places, but I didn’t make a new anklet every time, just this one….” 

Judy talks through the others, saying their names and something good about the home, only faltering once: “This is when I lived with Mr. and Mrs. Cobb….” It takes Judy a few seconds to think of something nice to say. “Oh! They had the sweetest cat, it slept at the foot of my bed sometimes.” 

When she’s named the sixth and final set of foster parents (“The Barretts...I was with them longer than anyone, they’re great. For my birthday, they gave me my first ever set of oil paints.”) Judy grabs hold of yet another anklet.

“My mom got paroled just after I turned seventeen...we got a few visits, she was staying at this place for recovering drug addicts, but she got custody back at the beginning of my senior year. I had to change schools after, like, two weeks of classes but I didn’t mind. I just kind of wanted to keep the anklet thing going, since there was one for all the places I’d lived since I started making them, so I made this one the first week we moved. That was the apartment I went to the other night. And _then_ …” 

She touches the last anklet, the one with a familiar braid of pastel tones. “I maybe did this one a little too soon…when I got our dorm assignment in the mail.” 

Without thinking about it, Jen reaches out and touches the anklet, too, tracing her finger over the part Judy’s holding. 

“You know…” Jen’s voice comes out strange, pitched too low. She swallows against the tightness in her throat before continuing, “I don’t wear a ton of jewelry, since I’m in the studio so much, but uh. I have mine on my dance bag.” 

For the first time in what feels like hours, Judy’s smile spreads everywhere, eyes included. “I noticed that.” 

“Good.” Jen looks down at their hands; she pulls hers back. Silence blankets them, and Jen starts to fidget beneath it; she never knows what to do, after _talks_ like this, when it feels impossible to back away from heavy, hushed tones. 

She finally exhales, slow and showy. “So...do you wanna, like. Watch TV or something? Or, seriously, if you want something else to eat we can raid the pantry, you can’t be full after that dinner.”

Judy smiles easily. “I’m really fine, I had seconds of all the veggies....TV would be good, though, but could I maybe use the shower first?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Jen stands up from the bed. Her bathroom connects her bedroom with the guest room; Jen pushes the door open and flicks on a light. “There’s another door that opens into Susan’s room, so just make sure to lock the door on that side whenever you’re in there.”

“Got it.” Judy’s off the bed now, too, heading for her suitcase.

While Judy digs around for her toiletry bag, Jen pulls fresh towels out of the linen closet, relieved to be focusing on practicalities. Once Judy’s in the shower, Jen goes downstairs, cautious, listening for the sound of kids before she rounds every corner; she doesn’t want to get stuck letting Amber watch TV with them. She makes it to the kitchen without being spotted and grabs a half empty packet of cookies and two cans of soda before plotting a route back upstairs.

Judy’s already back in the bedroom when Jen gets there, towel drying her hair and wearing her usual tank top and silky pajama pants. 

“Jesus, did you take, like, a military style speed shower?” 

“There’s just kind of a lot of people staying here, so I didn’t want to monopolize the hot water.” She eyes the cookie package in Jen’s hand and grins. “Okay, I know I said I wasn’t hungry…”

Jen smirks and tosses her the package. She steps closer to hand over one of the Diet Cokes. “Sorry it’s gotta be virgin sodas for the next few days...too many potential witnesses around. When it’s just us and my parents we can add the hard stuff.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

There’s a modest collection of movies on a shelf in the living room, but Jen isn’t going to risk another trip downstairs to explore their options. She grabs the TV remote from her bedside table and moves two pillows to the foot of her bed before stretching out on her stomach, propping her elbows on one of the pillows before turning on the television that sits on top of her dresser against the wall opposite the bed. 

“What do you want to watch?” 

“Oh, I don’t care, put on anything,” Judy says, cracking open her soda can and joining Jen on the bed. 

It’s earlier than they ever watch TV in the dorms, but Jen turns to the channel that reruns _Facts of Life_ anyway. They’ve never caught which blocks of ancient reruns comes before it, but when the commercial ends the black and white image of _I Love Lucy_ fills the screen. Jen raises an eyebrow at Judy; she nods agreeably. 

When there’s another commercial break, Jen gets up to turn out the overhead light and changes quickly into sleep clothes. When she settles back onto the bed, Judy’s eyes look glazed over and half lidded in the glow from the television. 

Jen leans sideways so her shoulder nudges Judy’s. “Hey. What time is it for you?” 

Judy squints at her in confusion. “Um, the...same time...as it is for you?” 

Jen exhales a short, laughing note. “Sorry, I mean, like. _Internally_. Are you fucked up from hopping time zones so fast?” 

“Yeah, I guess a little. I wasn’t in California long enough to get on west coast time, so I didn’t sleep great either night I was there.” 

“We can turn this off…?”

“No, leave it.” She turns her face toward Jen, smiling sideways at her. “It’s nice, laying here watching...if I fall asleep I don’t have to get back up and take an elevator.” 

“It is convenient. I thought about bringing the TV back to our dorm after Thanksgiving, but it’d be a pain in the ass getting it there.” It’s a bulky tube television, the kind with a built in VCR. “Plus it’s kind of big for those dressers, but I don’t know where else it would go.” 

The episode starts again. Jen turns the volume up a few notches. She hasn’t seen much of _I Love of Lucy_ , but it feels familiar anyway, playing a predictable beat of jokes followed by canned laughter, and Jen suddenly thinks back to fall break, the first time she and Judy watched sitcoms in the dorm basement. 

Judy had said she found old, long running sitcoms comforting, something recognizable and unchanging to grab onto in an unfamiliar place, and Jen had just assumed she was referring to moving houses or apartments with her mom. Now, though, she realizes it wasn’t just a few unfamiliar homes; there were so many of them, one for every anklet, and, save for characters on a television, they had only been filled with strangers.

It’s a strange feeling, to know there had been moments with Judy she hadn’t fully understood while they were happening. Jen doesn’t like it at all, but once she gets started she can’t stop unraveling her memories of last semester and trying to stitch them back together, weaving in all this new knowledge. There must have been a day when Judy tried calling her mom and found out the phone number was suddenly a dead end. Jen would have fucking _seen_ her that day, maybe even right after it happened, and she had no idea.

“Judy?”

“Mmmm?” 

“I’m, um. I’m really glad you told me everything.”

Judy turns to look at her. “I’m glad you know.” 

There’s a pause, but Judy doesn’t return her attention to the TV. 

“I’m glad you told me, too,” she finally says. “About your mom.” 

Judy’s smiling when she says it, soft and sweet, but there’s a shudder of guilt in Jen’s chest anyway. She _hadn’t_ told Judy, just let her walk into the kitchen and find out on her own, and even after that Jen barely said anything else about it. Regret stings the back of her throat and claws its way out as a shame-filled apology.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner.”

“It’s okay.”

Jen sighs, turning her attention back to the TV. Lucy and Ricky banter in their double twin beds, portraits of dancers hanging on the wall above them. The set reminds Jen of their dorm in the cheesiest fucking way possible. Her thoughts leap into next semester, wondering how the night’s revelations will change things between them, or if they’ll change anything at all.

“We probably shouldn’t keep stuff from each other,” Jen says, glancing sideways, hoping to peripherally read Judy’s reaction.

“I won’t,” Judy’s tone is concrete. “I promise.” She holds her hand out to Jen. "Shake on it?" 

Jen rolls her eyes, but she takes her hand, holding on maybe a second longer than is strictly necessary. 

When they let go, Judy crosses her arms over her pillow and rests her chin on her forearm. Jen bites off half a cookie.

“It’s so weird that they had separate beds,” Judy says.

“Yeah.”

Judy reaches for her soda and murmurs against the aluminum. “It looks kind of like a dorm.”

Jen smiles and eats the other half of the Entenmman’s. “It does.”

By the time _Facts of Life_ comes on, Judy’s asleep. Jen turns down the volume, then changes her mind and turns the television off. She hadn’t slept much last night, either, Judy’s phone call stuck in her head like the worst kind of song. 

Jen had lain right here, awake and worried, with Judy nearly three thousand miles away. Now she’s safe, and close enough to touch; it’ll be easy to fall asleep.

+

When Judy wakes up, she’s alone in Jen’s bed, and she apparently slept in it backwards: head at the foot and vice versa. She smiles when she notices another pillow beside her, relieved Jen hadn’t had to deal with Judy’s feet in her face all night.

There’s a ripped sheet of notebook paper on the pillow, too, with a hastily scrawled note from Jen saying she’s working out in the basement. Of _course_ she still trains on vacation. 

Judy sits up and smooths out the rumpled, sky blue comforter they had slept on top of. It’s 9:34 am, according to Jen’s alarm clock; Judy wonders how long ago she went downstairs, but she’s perfectly content while she waits, letting her eyes roam around the bedroom that Jen’s lived in her whole life. 

It’s so stuffed full, bursting with history. There’s a small bookshelf, occupied mostly by the choices of a kid – _The Baby Sitters Club_ and _Sweet Valley High_ – plus a few glass figurines of ballerinas, spread out on the edge of the shelves like they’re standing guard over Jen’s old books. Judy spots more remnants of childhood in a corner of the room, a toy chest topped with stuffed animals – mostly dogs. 

But adolescence firmly asserts itself in the rest of the room. Most of the wall decor is concentrated above Jen’s desk, a small collage of posters with curling corners and creases in the center, showing off years worth of Jen’s favorites; some Judy could have guessed, like _Heathers_ and The Sundays and some carefully torn covers of Playbills, but others surprise her – she never knew Jen liked Nirvana. Or _Saved By the Bell_. 

The only thing hanging up in an actual frame is above Jen’s bed: it’s a large photo of teenagers in sequined leotards, sparkling red and gold as they pose on a stage, one row sitting over the edge and another kneeling behind them. Judy’s eyes find Jen right away, front and center and not quite smiling, just staring confident and steady at the camera. The photo is centered in the frame and surrounded by signatures, maybe fifteen names written in black marker cursive. 

By the door to the bathroom, there’s a vanity that looks like it belongs in some backstage dressing room, the kind with bare lightbulbs lining the mirror’s perimeter. A few stray Polaroids are sticking out at careless angles, slid into the mirror’s edges. 

Judy walks close enough to see them; one is just a shot taken from ground level of a pair of feet, presumably Jen’s, in pale pink pointe shoes, lifted up on their toes in a way that should be impossible. The other three photos show Jen with a group of other teenagers, all of them smirking at the camera and looking cooler than anyone who ever talked to Judy at any of her three high schools. The same guy is posing beside Jen in two of the photos, his arm draped over her shoulder in the one where they all looked dressed for prom. Judy moves away from the mirror, turning her attention elsewhere, taking in any detail she can. 

Unplugged lava lamp on Jen’s bedside table. Broadway street sign above the door to the bathroom. A row of vinyl records lining the very top of one wall, not quite reaching the end, like an abandoned decorating project. Notebooks stacked on the desk, labeled with much more mundane subjects than Jen’s current, dance centric classes. A towering cassette rack on the floor beside Jen’s bedside table, completely full even though Jen left a lot of her tapes back in the dorm. 

Judy is greedy for it, this comprehensive museum of Jen’s life; she wants to open the wooden chest and see every toy Jen once loved enough to keep, to pour over the stack of notebooks and see what Jen was doodling or writing in the margins beside her algebra notes, to go through every drawer for more photographic evidence that Jen was out in the world existing before Judy even knew her. 

She’s looking at the cassette tower, reading the familiar handwritten labels of Jen’s mixes, when Jen comes back in, opening the door to her room slow and quiet until she sees Judy’s up. “Oh, hey. Wasn’t sure if you’d be awake.” 

“Haven’t been for long.” Judy smiles at her. "Merry Christmas Eve eve.” 

Jen rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Yeah okay, you, too, Tiny Tim.” 

“Never seen you in that leotard before.” 

It’s purple. Jen rolls her eyes. “All my good ones are at the dorm.” 

“I like it. You look cute in colors.” 

“I’ll leave that to you,” Jen says, smirking. “Hey, I’m gonna shower, but then would you wanna go grab some breakfast or something? There’s a few places we can walk to, and it might be the only non-family meal we get away with for the next few days.”

“Sure, sounds great,” Judy says amiably. Really, she had _liked_ the family dinner last night, but she also likes the prospect of seeing Jen’s neighborhood. 

While Jen showers, Judy gets dressed and deals with the tangled mess of her hair, knotty from falling asleep with it still damp, and by ten am they’re ready to go. She left the coat Jen’s been letting her borrow back in the dorm, since she wouldn’t have needed it in California, but Jen finds her another old one to wear, and Judy puts on the scarf Jen got her for Christmas.

The kids are already up but still in pajamas, the little boys camped out in front of Saturday morning cartoons while Amber’s curled up in a recliner with headphones on, flipping through a _Tiger Beat_. The house smells like bacon.

“If they’re cooking breakfast, are you sure it’s okay if we go – “

“Yeah, I told them we weren’t eating,” Jen cuts her off, then raises her voice. “ _Mom_! Judy and I are heading to R&R!” 

It’s her aunt that calls back, “Remember we need to leave by eleven!” 

Jen waits until they’re half out the door before answering, “Might be closer to eleven thirty.” 

She immediately shuts the door, not giving her aunt a chance to argue. Judy follows Jen down her front walk. “What’s at eleven?” 

“She does this stupid thing with the kids every year the day before Christmas Eve… when Amber was like three and they first came here for Christmas, Susan told her FAO Schwartz is a fucking _magic_ toy store – “ 

“Jennifer!” 

Jen sighs under her breath but slows to a stop to lift a hand at the middle aged woman on the front stoop two houses down from Jen’s. “Hi, Mrs. Oatman.” 

The woman, who was sweeping up green needles that have fallen from the giant wreaths adorning every window and doorway on her porch, leans her broom by the front door and comes further down her front walk to chat. “Welcome home, honey...I was wondering when I’d see you around here.” 

Jen’s smile stiffens. “I’ve been home for a week now.” 

“Well, I know your mom’s thrilled.” Mrs. Oatman smiles at her, then at Judy, though she purses her lips in apparent confusion. “Now, is this one of your cousins...?” 

“No, this is Judy...we room together at school.”

“Nice to meet you,” Judy says with a smile.

“That’s right, I thought Susan’s kids were a few years younger...good to meet you, too, hon. Merry Christmas.” She shifts her attention back to Jen. “You know, Jennifer, I came by hoping to say hello the day after Thanksgiving, but your mom said you’d already headed back to school.” 

Jen’s cheeks are pink, and there’s a muscle pulsing her jaw; she looks like she’s working hard not to seem pissed. “Yeah, that break was so close to our recital and finals and everything…” 

“I kept saying to your mom last year, how lucky she is that you’d be so close, that it’d be so easy for you to get from school to home, but I guess that goes both ways, huh? You remember Ryan went all the way to Penn State, and he still came home at least one weekend a month with a car full of laundry…” 

“Jen’s dance program is really intense,” Judy says suddenly. “She’s in the studio every day, even weekends.” 

Jen glances at Judy, looking almost surprised at her interjection, and Mrs. Oatman voice is immediately warmer as she replies, “Oh, I’m sure she is, I know how hard Jennifer works...that’s why she’s gonna be a star someday.” 

“Definitely,” Judy agrees firmly, and this time Jen flashes her a quick look of gratitude.

“We’re going to grab some breakfast, but it was really nice seeing you, Mrs. Oatman,” Jen says, perfectly polite now.

“You, too, honey...you girls have a good Christmas.” 

“Yeah, you, too.”

“Nice to meet you!” 

They wave and start down the sidewalk again; as soon as they’re safely out of earshot, Jen mutters, “She’s friends with my mom, she takes her to chemo when my dad’s working, so. Kinda have to be nice.” 

Jen’s staring straight ahead when she says it, hands shoved tight into the pockets of her coat. 

“That’s nice of her.” Judy waits a second, in case Jen wants to tell her anything else. When she doesn’t, Judy smiles at her and says, “So, you were saying something about a magic fucking toy store?” 

For the rest of the walk, Jen tells her about her aunt’s story that FAO Schwartz is owned by Santa Claus himself, and if they go there before Christmas Eve they can wish for one bonus gift that wasn’t on the lists recited to various mall Santas back in Maine. Jen’s job is to go with them into the city, feigning a separate shopping trip, but really she’s following them around the store to make the purchases. Judy thinks it’s kind of an adorable tradition, but Jen obviously isn’t thrilled with her part in it. 

The coffee shop, which Jen has only referred to as R&R, turns out to be called Reardon’s Roast, and it’s only about a mile from Jen’s house. They order bagels and coffee and take them to a booth in the corner. Jen smirks at Judy from across the table, pressing her palms together, fingers steepled, and bows her head in mock reverence. “We better say grace...can’t eat a two dollar bagel without saying thanks to God.” She drops the act and rolls her eyes. “I promise the praying before meals thing’ll end once my aunt leaves.”

“I don’t mind it,” Judy says honestly. “I went to church with a few of my foster parents.” 

Judy had always liked picking up the different religious rituals in different homes, whether it was praying before meals with Miss Brenda or attending Mass with the Tates or having Shabbat dinners with the Kleins. Participating in traditions like that made her feel almost like part of the family.

“Aunt Susan _used_ to be a normal shitty Catholic like my mom…church on Easter and _maybe_ Christmas Eve. Then my mom got sick and she got super born again...going to some creepy church her husband grew up in, trying to fucking pray the cancer away. You’d think she’d have given it up by now, since it hasn’t done shit.” 

“I’m sorry,” Judy says softly.

“You really don’t have to say that every time it comes up.” 

“Sorry.” Judy hesitates, unsure what else she _should_ say. Jen had told her last night that she doesn’t like talking about her mom’s cancer, and Judy can understand why. She never wants to pry or seem like she’s pushing Jen toward a conversation, but this is the second time this morning she’s brought it up on her own, unprompted. Maybe it’s safe to ask a question.

“How often does your mom have chemo?”

“Every three weeks, for this kind,” Jen tells her. “Her next appointment’s sometime next week, I think she pushed it a few days because of Christmas...that’s why she seems pretty good right now. Further out from treatment.” 

Jen doesn’t sound like she minded answering, thank God, so Judy risks a follow up. “Do you know how many more, um...how many rounds of chemo she’ll have to do? Is that how you say it, _rounds_?” 

“Yeah, except that’s not really how it works for her anymore. She’s been on this regimen for over a year and a half now, and it’s not making it any better but it’s kept it from getting worse. She’s probably just going to have to keep getting it until something big changes.” 

Judy isn’t sure if a big change would imply Jen’s mom getting better or worse, but there’s something sealed up about Jen’s expression, all of a sudden, and it doesn’t surprise Judy when she abruptly changes the subject. “So, about this afternoon...you okay helping me spy on my relatives at a toy store?” 

Judy’s quiet for a moment; she’d forgotten to figure out her own plan for the day. “Actually...I kind of need to go by campus. So if it’s okay, I might ride with you but get off at our stop.” 

Jen frowns. “You need something from our room? Cause I don’t know if they padlock it or if there’s an alarm or what, but I’m pretty sure you can’t get into the dorms.” 

“Oh, I know, I actually just need to stop by Hudson,” Judy assures her, referring to the UNY art building. “Our codes still work to get us in...Eli says he goes to work in the studio over breaks sometimes, so security shouldn’t come and grab me or anything.” 

“You can draw at my house, you know.” 

“I _can_ , but I’d need something to draw _with_. I told your cousins I’d do their portraits, so I need to – “

“Oh, God, Judy, you _really_ don’t have to follow through on that. The boys have probably already forgotten about it.” 

“I know, but I said I’d do it...and I’m gonna be here on Christmas morning, I want to have something to give them.” 

Jen rolls her eyes but gives in, heaving a dramatic sigh. “ _Fine_. Make me play Santa alone.” 

+

It’s late afternoon by the time Jen gets home; the FAO Schwartz trip takes longer every year, with the boys apparently needing to look at every available item twice before making their selection. She’s got the FAO Schwartz bags in her hand and Aunt Susan’s credit card in her wallet as she heads up her front walk; Susan had taken the kids to Rockefeller Plaza after they left the toy story, so as much as she’d like to get caught with the gifts and end this fucking tradition, it’s completely safe to take them inside. 

Judy should be back by now. Jen had written down directions from the train station to her house, since she’s never spent any time in Brooklyn, but still Jen’s relieved to see Judy as soon as she steps into the house.

She’s standing in front of their shelf of vinyl, avidly listening to Jen’s mom talk about having morning sickness far too late in the day. Even before Jen realizes what’s playing on the stereo, she knows exactly which story is being told: her mom seeing Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden in 1977, nearly four months pregnant with Jen and thus, tragically, unable to fit into her ideal outfit. 

Judy is clearly enthralled, holding the _Rumours_ album sleeve and subtly bobbing her head to the music. She notices Jen and grins at her, but doesn’t interrupt Jen’s mom, who’s recalling the concert set list to the best of her ability, eighteen and a half years later.

“Of course they save _The Chain_ for the encore...hey, sweetheart,” her mom smiles at Jen as she joins them. “How’d it go?” 

“Secret’s safe another year,” Jen says. “Unfortunately.” 

“Always such a grinch.” Maggie smirks, but then her eyes sharpen, turning critical as she looks Jen over. “Where’s your coat?” 

“I don’t usually wear it in the house.” 

“Mmm _hmm_ , and you’ve been inside the house for all of five seconds. Knowing you, it should be on the floor between here and the door, and yet...” She makes a point of scanning the living room, then arches an eyebrow at Jen. 

Jen rolls her eyes and pulls her coat out of the FAO Schwartz bag. “It’s not even _that_ cold out, and it’s sunny, and I just had it off the last five minutes I was walking.”

“Well, honey, I’m sure that was a very freeing five minutes. But you’re not home like this very often, and I’d rather not to be forced to keep ten feet away from you while you are, while your poor Dad and Judy follow you around with disinfectant.” 

Jen is gritting her teeth so hard it hurts; she’s sure she’s blushing, furious and humiliated at being talked to like a dumb twelve year old, like she’s _Amber_ for Christ’s sake, especially in front of Judy, who’s suddenly become consumed with reading Fleetwood Mac’s liner notes. She doesn’t even bother with her usual comeback (“Not wearing a coat _literally_ cannot get you sick”) which is inevitably followed by a classic of her mother’s (“No, but it makes you more _susceptible_ to getting sick, and you know it’s flu season”). 

Instead, Jen picks up the FAO Schwartz bags with as much dignity as she can and says, “I gotta take these to the guest room.” 

“Put them in the hall closet so Amber doesn’t see,” Maggie counters; having been evicted from Jen’s floor and declaring herself too old to join her brothers on the basement pallet, Amber’s staying with her mom.

“Amber doesn’t even _believe_ in Santa,” Jen retorts as she goes stomping up the stairs, not liking the whiny note in her voice but unable to stop it, either. 

When her mom’s undergoing chemo, the subsequent weakened immune system means she has to keep her distance from anyone unhealthy. It makes the classic _wear a coat it’s cold out!_ parental edict a little more intense coming from her. Given Mrs. Oatman’s not remotely fucking subtle digs at her not coming home enough – again, right in front of Judy – Jen’s really not in the mood to be guilted more. 

The worst thing she ever did – or at least, a solid entry in the Top Five – was fake strep throat, only once, to get out of visiting her mother in the hospital. Jen had strep a lot as a kid, but it lessened around puberty, her body apparently sensing that there wasn’t space for mundane illness in this family, but she knew exactly how to describe it for authenticity. An infection of any kind, even a stupid one that kids get, could be dangerous for anyone going through chemo; Jen was thirteen years old, and her mother had been admitted to the hospital for a particularly ravaging dose of treatment. 

Jen hadn’t wanted to go see her; it was as simple and awful as that. 

When Jen comes back downstairs, Judy and her mom are where she left them, the record still spinning, but somehow between “Dreams” and “Never Going Back” the conversation has moved on from concerts to recitals. 

“...then the second number was more ballet,” Judy’s enthusing when Jen reaches them. “I’m still kind of figuring out the difference, but it was a _pas de deux.”_ The momentum of her sentence slows a bit so Judy can pronounce the unfamiliar term with careful deliberation, and it makes Jen smile. Judy meets her eyes and smiles back. “And Jen was amazing in that one, too.” 

“I don’t think that’s what you said at the time,” Jen says, raising her eyebrows. “I _think_ you said I was great _except for my face_.” 

“Her partner was kind of creepy,” Judy explains hastily to Maggie. “But they were still really good together!” 

Maggie grins, then gives Jen a mock accusatory look. “I told Judy I might have to send the video camera back to school with you girls, if you keep banning us from performances.” 

“I didn’t _ban_ you,” Jen says. “I just told you not to bother. I was in two group numbers, we literally left after an hour. Waste of time.” 

“Judy,” Maggie asks in a pointed voice. “Was it a waste of time?” 

“Um.” Judy’s eyes dart nervously between Maggie and Jen, who narrows her own in a warning look. “Well, _I_ really enjoyed it…”

“That’s because she’s never seen another recital before,” Jen interrupts, and for some reason her mother gets a worrisome glint in her eye at that.

“Well, we’re gonna change that tonight, aren’t we?”

Judy’s eyes are sparkling with excitement. “Your mom said we can watch some of your old recital tapes.” 

Jen tips her head back and groans ostentatiously. “We _can_ , but that doesn't mean we _should_.” 

“Too late, kiddo.” Maggie puts her arm around Jen’s shoulders and winks at Judy. “Promises have been made. Now, I’ve got some gift wrapping to get done, but Jude, you feel free to keep going through these.” She nods at the shelves of vinyl, and Judy’s grin broadens as she thanks her.

“Your parents' record collection is incredible,” Judy gushes once Maggie’s heading down the hall. “Your mom said I could tape some of the records on the stereo.” 

“Yeah, I was gonna show you how to make mixes while we’re here, anyway,” Jen says, a little put out that it no longer seems like her idea. She lifts the needle up, cutting the music off. “You get everything you need at Hudson?”

“Yeah, see?” Judy walks over to Jen’s dad’s favorite chair, where she’s stacked some art supplies. “I got a sketchpad and a set of colored pencils that aren’t _technically_ mine, but I’m gonna replace them. How was playing Santa?”

Jen rolls her eyes. “Fucking _jolly_. Amber knows it’s bullshit and still picked out the most expensive thing in the place.” 

Judy smiles, but it fades quickly. “If you really don’t want me to see your old recital videos, we don’t have to watch…” 

“It’s fine, no way you get through the next few weeks without Mom pulling them out. I just wish she’d stick to age fifteen and over. But we’re definitely gonna fucking start with, like, tiny tap class.” Judy’s lips curl inward, physically holding down a smile, and Jen swats her arm. “You don’t have to look so excited.” 

When the kids get back, Judy curls into the recliner with her sketchbook while Amber preens on the ottoman, making model faces. Jen sits on the arm of the chair, looking back and forth between Judy’s quick sketch of Amber’s face and _Home_ _Alone_ , which the boys are half watching between strewing the carpet with legos and Nerf darts. They can’t get Justin and Nathan to sit still long enough to pose, so Jen finds her the most recent photos she can, from last year, and lets Judy use them for reference. Jen’s dad picks up pizza on his way home from work, and even though they still insist on eating at the table, Jen’s glad for the quick, casual nature of the meal – even if it _is_ immediately followed by her mom pulling out the dreaded basket of home videos. 

+

  
  


On the television screen, Jen is dancing in a red sequined top and black skirt with white fringe, while on the couch, Jen’s put a beanie on and tugged it down so low it’s nearly touching her chin. 

“Can’t you tell she’s the best one onstage?” Maggie asks, pride swelling in her voice as the onscreen Jen does a _chug-a chug-a motion_ as the lyrics to “The Locomotion” demand, then begins shimmying her shoulders.

“ _Definitely_ ,” Judy agrees vehemently.

“It’s a pretty low bar with five year olds,” Jen says, voice muffled by her face covering. 

She’s between Judy and her mom on the couch, and Judy grins and leans into her side. “Stop it, you look so adorable in your little ribbons…” 

The camera zooms in tighter, the picture shaky as it adjusts to center on Jen, and even in the fuzzy home video footage and the glare of the stage lights, Judy can recognize the contempt suddenly twisting Jen’s tiny features as she looks at the little girl beside her, who's staring off into the audience and completely missing the cue for jumping forward and back again. 

Judy bursts out laughing, and Jen yanks the beanie off her face to look at her. “ _What_?”

“You just…” Judy tries to stop giggling long enough to talk. “Even back then you needed to work on your face.” 

Jen sticks most of her hand beneath the beanie to tug it back down over her face, leaving only the middle finger outside and aimed at Judy.

“Oh, Jen had _no_ patience for any other kid in that class,” Maggie says. “We moved her to a class with the eight year olds that next year…Jen, what was your instructor’s name that year?” 

“No idea.” 

“Really pretty woman, remember, she had red hair...was it Miss Terri?”

“Miss Tanya,” Hank puts in from where he’s sitting in a recliner, Yogi flopped on his lap. It’s his first contribution to the dance video commentary. 

Maggie rolls her eyes, and it’s startling how much it makes her look like Jen. “You _would_ remember Miss Tanya,” she says to her husband, no real malice to her voice, before looking back at Judy. “Tanya came up to us at the end of that year and said Jen had a _natural_ _gift_. Her exact words. Wanted us to move her to a more advanced class if she was going to flourish.” 

“More like Miss Tanya wanted us to move the kid terrorizing the other kindergarteners,” Hank says, but he sounds proud, too, in this way that makes Judy’s chest feel warm. She likes how much they love Jen, how obvious it is. 

“Oh, here’s the best part,” Maggie says, and Judy looks eagerly at the television, where the picture has zoomed out and the little girls have split into two halves on the stage, both sides forming single file lines, hands on each others shoulders. The line on the left side is weaving its way downstage in a curvy pattern before heading into the wings, but the right line stalls, its leader apparently unsure of what to do – until Jen breaks rank, stomping out from the center of the line and, as the camera zooms in unsteadily, takes her rightful spot at the front. She seems to be speaking to the girl behind her, and even though the Jen in the recital video is only five, Judy can easily imagine she’s saying something like, _Just let me fucking do it_. 

Confidently, Jen leads the line in its intended direction and offstage while her family laughs in the living room, thirteen years later. Judy reaches for Jen and pulls the beanie off her head, revealing her red faced with wild, static hair. She meets Judy’s eyes, her own caught between embarrassment and pride. “This fun for you?” 

“It’s fun to see,” Judy says with a smile. “You were already so _you_.” 

They fast forward, find one more recital when Jen was still in the little kid class. This one starts at the house, close on Jen’s face, her lips comically pursed while someone puts lipstick on them. There’s a time stamp in the corner, dating it as May 9, 1983, and after a moment Judy realizes it’s being filmed in the living room, almost the same spot where they’re sitting now. The couch is different but the coffee table is the same, and it’s oddly thrilling to see Jen so young in a place Judy recognizes. 

The picture zooms out, revealing Jen’s mom, her hair blonde and curly, kneeling in front of the couch with a tube of lipstick. 

Onscreen, Jen glances over at the camera and interrupts her mom’s lipstick application to ask, “Daddy, are you taking my picture?” 

“I can’t hit a moving target, Jenny,” 1983 Maggie says. “Hold still…” 

The little boys haven’t been paying much attention to the dance videos, having abandoned their Legos in favor of setting up a Hot Wheels race track, but Nathan looks up suddenly and squints suspiciously at the screen, “Who’s that lady?” 

“That’s Aunt Maggie,” Susan says sharply. “You know that.” 

Maggie just laughs. “You know, I think I’d keep my current look over going back to that awful perm. What were we thinking, Suze?” 

“It was the style,” Susan says. “Another ten years we’ll look back at pictures from this Christmas and find something else to embarrassed about.” 

The video is showing the actual recital now, and Jen’s beanie goes back over her face as they watch her in a blue and silver tutu, doing what seems to be rudimentary ballet to “What A Wonderful World.” The home movie immediately cuts to a tap number. This time Jen and her dance class are dressed in sparkly, hot pink one piece swimsuits with green skirts, loudly tapping to “Splish Splash”, while Hank _humphs_ from his recliner about how he still doesn’t think they should put kids that young onstage in swimsuits. 

Jen finally steals the remote and insists they watch something where she’s actually _impressive_. She has to compromise with her mom and allow them to view her (competition winning!) tap solo to “New York, New York” at age eleven – Susan comments that she looks exactly like Amber, and Jen, under her breath so only Judy can hear, mutters, “Kill me.” in response.

After that, it’s solely performances from Jen’s high school years, which prompts Amber to pull out her Walkman and disappear behind a magazine, only after complaining, “We’ve _seen_ all these.” 

“ _Judy_ hasn’t,” Jen shoots back, mimicking her petulant tone. 

At some point, Hank falls asleep in his recliner, and Susan takes the boys downstairs for bed – they’ve apparently turned a corner of the basement into a fort over their sleeping bags – before going to the guest room to wrap gifts. Amber stays where she is, stretched out on the loveseat, but she’s got headphones on and hasn’t looked up from her magazine in half an hour, so really it’s just Judy, Jen, and her mom watching various solos from recitals and competitions. Maggie always chimes in to recall which awards each solo won, or what compliments were given after a performance, while Jen is quick to point out mistakes Judy never once notices. 

“We really don’t have to keep doing this,” Jen says sheepishly at some point, when she’s kneeling by the VCR swapping out a videotape. 

“I want to,” Judy says, not adding that she’d happily sit and watch all the tapes they’re skipping, every moment they’re fast forwarding through. “I mean, as long as you don’t mind.” 

“It’s just getting a little egotistical, even for me.” 

Judy grins at her from the couch. “We could always go back to the sequined tutu era.” 

“Sweetheart, at least make sure you show Judy the ‘Forever Young’ solo,” Maggie tells her.

“Oh, uh…” Jen glances over, meeting Judy’s eyes. “She’s kinda seen that one.” 

“She has?” Maggie looks between them, brows knit if confusion. “You brought that video to school?”

“No, just...” Jen slides a new tape into the VCR and rejoins them on the couch. Her face looks flushed. “I was showing her the studio one night, and there was a tape there with the song...I just ended up showing her most of it.” 

“I really wanted to see her dance,” Judy explains, gathering that Jen doesn’t want her mom to realize they were stoned on campus in the middle of the night. “I pretty much made her do it.” 

“Well, it’s a good choice,” Maggie says, patting Jen on the knee. “That’s always been one of my favorites.” 

“Me, too,” Judy says earnestly. It must sound silly, given that two recital numbers and tonight’s video clips are the only things she has for comparison. But she’s glad when Jen fast forwards through a performance of the same solo, even though she can see Jen is onstage, in a beautiful costume, presumably after months and months of practice and one hundred percent sober. She still doesn’t think anything could touch that night during fall break, Jen in an old T-shirt and bare feet, the studio 2am quiet except for the song and Judy’s heartbeat and the defiant thump of Jen’s feet returning to earth. 

+

They finally escape the dance career retrospective, proudly hosted by Maggie Russell, and retreat to Jen’s room for the night. Jen rattles off a monologue about how shitty she used to be during dance competitions, heavy on self deprecation to counter the last ninety minutes of ego stroking, while she looks through her tapes to find something to listen to. She finds a mix without a case or even a label, a rarity that makes her curious enough to stick into the cassette deck of her ancient radio. She’s pleasantly surprised when Des’ree starts playing; she turns up the volume, just a little, and turns around just as Judy’s pulling her dress over her head.

She folds the dress and kneels down to set it on top her suitcase, sitting there in her bra and underwear and taking her time before pulling out her pajamas. Jen has to drag her gaze away, annoyed at the heat suddenly prickling at the back of her neck, threatening to spread. They change in front of each other every day in the dorm room, never giving it much thought, but something about seeing Judy like that _here_ , in Jen’s childhood bedroom, makes her feel like she’s doing something indecent. 

Jen turns her back on Judy, going to her dresser to change into her own clothes, aware she’s being weirdly quick about it – her sweater barely hits the floor before she’s pulled an oversized Rangers T-shirt over her head. When she turns around, Judy’s on her knees by Jen’s bookshelf, in pajama pants but ( _still_ ) no shirt, apparently distracted by Jen’s ancient collection of Beverly Cleary novels or whatever else is still on that shelf.

“What’re you looking at?” 

“Yearbooks,” she says, pulling one out to show Jen. “I didn’t notice them before...can I read them?” 

“I mean, there’s not much to _read_ unless you’re into in a bunch of senior quotes from Boyz II Men or Chris Farley, but sure, go nuts.” She pauses, keeping her tone light, “Maybe put a shirt on first.”

Judy looks down at herself then up at Jen, grinning with her tongue caught between her teeth. “Distracting you?” 

“Shut up,” Jen says, rolling her eyes; apparently, for Judy, that joke that will never get old.

Judy laughs, but she puts on her tank top before grabbing the entire four volume stack of thick high school yearbooks and bringing them to Jen’s bed. She sits down and reads the book spines until she finds freshmen year. “Gotta start at the beginning,” Judy says seriously. “Even though I already know the ending.” 

Jen makes a scoffing sound, joining her on the bed. “Isn’t the ending _graduation_? I don’t think it’s supposed to be a big twist.” 

“ _Everyone’s_ ending is graduation,” Judy corrects her. “Well, almost everyone. _Your_ ending, senior year, is homecoming queen. And I still think you’re lying about not winning Most Popular.” 

“I’m really not,” Jen tells her, deciding not to add that she did get Best Hair.

Judy insists on reading every signature in Jen’s yearbook out loud, which requires Jen to provide a quick one sentence bio for whoever wrote it, and often leads to Judy flipping through the freshman class to put a face to the name. At this rate, it will take them all of winter break to get to Jen’s senior superlatives.

  
+  
  


“...geometry with Mrs. 'Ass-worth' was the worst, but at least we suffered through it together. I don’t know what I’ll do without your sarcastic jokes next year, but I know class will be a lot more boring. Who would have thought a sixth grade friendship could last this long! Keep in touch! I’ll miss you so much next year so you and Nora and Emily HAVE to come visit me in NJ, and I know I’ll be back all the time so we can keep up the no fry Friday tradition. Smiley face. Love, your BFF….” Judy’s voice trails off. “I can’t read the signature, who was it?” 

“No idea,” Jen says.

“Are you serious? She said she was your BFF! Look.” Judy raises the yearbook high enough so Jen, who’s behind Judy on the bed, braiding her hair while she reads, can see the signature, scrawled cramped and barely legible to fit into the bottom corner of the page. “I think it starts with a C....” 

Jen thinks for a minute. “Oh, okay, I know. Casey Phillips. She moved to Jersey after sophomore year.” 

“There’s a P.S....” Judy lowers the book and reads, “ _Always remember the best dudes lose tights, ha!!_ What does that mean?” 

“Fuck if I know,” Jen says, her fingers working again, carefully weaving separate strands of Judy’s dark hair together – the braiding was _not_ Jen’s idea, not really. It came up during the recital videos, when Judy complimented an intricate braid Jen had worn for a showcase; she’d offered to show Judy sometime, but it had been awhile, so she needs a refresher. Plus she has to do _something_ to pass the time while Judy treats her yearbooks like a fucking great American novel.

“So, she told you to always remember, but you forgot in, what? Two and half years?” 

“Apparently. I don’t think I talked to Casey after she moved.” 

“Not at _all_?” Judy sounds genuinely troubled by the news. “Did she move pretty far?” 

“I don’t think so. Just to, like, Sommerville, I think.” 

“That’s sad. She seemed so sure she’d keep visiting. She put her phone number, too...ooh! We should call her!” 

“ _We_ should?”

“Well, _you_ should call her, and then we can all hang out.” 

“Gee, thanks. Bored of me already?” 

She’s teasing, but Judy’s instant assurance sounds real. “Of course not! But she said keep in touch...and she said you were her best friend forever.” 

“Uh, I think she technically said she was _my_ best friend. Clearly not the case.”

Judy falls silent, not immediately moving onto another signature. 

“Hey.” Jen tugs gently on her braid, forcing Judy to tilt her head back and look up at her. “I promise you, Casey Phillips is doing just fine without me.”

Upside down, Judy’s eyes meet Jen’s. “ _I_ _’d_ want you to call. If it were me.” 

Jen smiles and loosens her hold. “Judy, if _you_ ever move to Jersey, or California, or wherever...I promise, I will call you.” 

“No, you won’t,” Judy argues, but there’s a playful note in her voice now, and Jen gets back to work on her hair. “You’ve got a strike against you already...you never answered my letter.” 

“Okay, that’s not fucking fair. I didn’t even know you then!” 

“Which was the whole _point_ of the _letter_.” 

“You know what I mean. Like. I didn’t know you were you."

Judy doesn’t say anything for a moment. Jen glances sideways, trying to catch Judy’s reflection in the vanity mirror. She wants to make sure she’s smiling. 

+

Christmas Eve, Jen and Judy sleep until nearly eleven and meander through the morning, turning Jen’s television on MTV and getting ready to whatever music videos are playing. Judy washes and blow dries her hair, then lets Jen put it back in the braid she’d practiced and perfected last night, filling Judy in on what to expect for the next two days.

“My Grandpa usually gets here early afternoon, so we gotta be ready to give up the bedroom for him tonight. Don’t worry, he heads back to Philly before dinner tomorrow. Aunt Susan basically lives in the kitchen today...she makes a fuck ton of cookies for the kids to decorate, but that’s gotta be done in time for her and my mom to cook for tonight. They have to try to cook everything my grandmother on that side used to make, and at this point I can only assume she wasn’t a great cook either. Tomorrow, though, Grandma and Pops come over – they’re my dad’s parents, the ones who live here – and Grandma’s actually a good cook. She’s the one who made the Thanksgiving leftovers I brought. Aunt Susan _hates_ that she cooks the whole meal herself. And she _really_ fucking hates how much her kids like it. Anyway, that’s more of a late lunch than dinner. Dad starts taking the ornaments off the tree as soon as we’re done eating, it’s on the curb by five, Christmas is over, and you and I can go to the movies or something.” 

“Got it,” Judy says, nodding her head. It might have messed Jen up if she wasn’t pretty much done; she loops a hair tie around the end of the braid and lets go. 

“Hey, um…” Judy turns around to face Jen, her expression hesitant. “I know Christmas is supposed to be a _family_ time, and you guys have all these traditions, and I wasn’t even supposed to be here…so I _really_ don’t mind skipping dinner tonight, or lunch tomorrow, or anything else. Until Christmas is over, if that’d be better. I can just stay up here and watch TV. Or, well, I guess I can’t when your grandfather is here...but I can take my stuff to the basement! I really wouldn’t mind, I can draw, and listen to music, and give you some time with everyone else. I could still even go to Jason’s apartment if you’d rather – “

“ _Fuck_ , Judy, just...just _stop_ it, okay?” Jen grits her teeth, trying not to sound as pissed off as she feels. The last four days, ever since Judy called from California, Jen’s been swallowing so much anger it’s starting to make her sick. She hates the way Judy is looking at her, so ready to find out she’s unwanted. Jen hates anyone who’s ever proved her right. 

Jen exhales, slow and deliberate, getting herself calm. It’s a little unnerving, how quickly the fury took her over. “Judy. You are the _only_ house guest that I actually _want_ here, okay?” She rolls her eyes and concedes, “I mean, fine, maybe my grandpa, I haven’t seen him in awhile. But as of right now, this morning? Just you. Okay?” 

“Okay.” Judy smiles, small but trusting enough that Jen’s able to return it.

+

The whole house smells like sugar cookies by noon, and though Jen’s spent the last several Christmas Eves at the barre in the basement or behind her locked bedroom door for as much of the day as possible, Judy’s enthusiasm for anything creative coaxes Jen to the ‘decoration station’ that is their dining room table. 

The boys are more interested in eating the icing and sprinkles available as toppings until they notice Judy’s meticulous designs, turning round sugar cookies into snowflakes or wreathes or Santa faces, and start making requests. Some don’t have end up having much to do with the holiday: Justin begs for a Red Sox logo on one of his designated cookies to leave for Santa, which Judy happily obliges with a tube of red icing. When Susan comes to check on their progress, she compliments the Christmas stockings, but Jen’s dad, following behind her with Yogi in his arms, recognizes the red socks for what they are and starts a playful argument with his nephew that ends with Judy decorating a Yankees cookie as well – then a second one, after Justin eats the first in an apparent act of sabotage. 

Hank makes a show of taking the surviving Yankees cookie “somewhere safe”, and when he’s out of earshot, Judy leans over to Jen, who’s been spreading a base of white icing on all the cookies before handing them over to Judy for the more artistic part, and asks, “Can Yogi _walk_?” 

Jen follows Judy’s gaze in the direction of the kitchen, where her dad is awkwardly using one hand to get the cookie into a Ziploc bag rather than setting down the dog, and she smirks. “He definitely could when Dad got him, but at this point who the fuck knows? His legs might’ve atrophied from lack of use.” 

When the cookies have been carefully wrapped so as not to disturb their designs and all evidence swept or scrubbed off the table, Judy gets back to her drawings; she explains to Jen that the sketches she’d made yesterday had just been quick reference points for the kids faces, and now she’s got a full pack of colored pencils and is working on more detailed drawings. The boys swarm around her for awhile, begging for a preview, and Jen ends up reluctantly partaking in several Super Nintendo games just to keep them from bugging Judy, whose cookie prowess has them half in love with her – Justin and Nathan _both_ call sitting next to Judy for Christmas Eve dinner, and Jen has to break the news that she beat them to the claim.

Jen leaves the kids to their own devices when her grandfather arrives; after he’s made the rounds of hugs and been introduced to Judy – he tells her to call him _Grandpa Bob_ , and Jen’s almost jealous of how delighted she looks – all he wants is to catch up with his grandkids while eating soft peppermints, so Jen perches on the arm of the chair where Judy’s drawing and tells him about her first semester of school, sometimes nudging Judy to chime in. 

+

“Oh my _God_ , I look so cool!” 

Jen nearly falls off the arm of Judy’s chair; Amber came out of nowhere, sneaking up behind them to get a peak at the drawing of her. 

Judy looks startled, too, but she quickly recovers and smiles up at Amber. “Oh, hey, I’m glad you like it! It’ll be done soon, I promise, I just have to finish the pom poms.” 

“It’s _so_ good,” Amber gushes. “I could be on a cover of a cheerleading magazine.” 

Jen notices her cousin’s compliments seem to be more focused on her own image than Judy’s work on it, but she’s ready to let that go until Amber gives Judy her sweetest smile and asks, “The only thing, though, is that my school’s colors are _blue_ and _white_ , not red. Do you think you could do one with the right colors this time?” 

“Oh.” Judy’s smile falters, and she looks regretfully down at her sketchpad. “I guess I can – “

Jen rolls her yes and cuts Judy off. “You didn’t even make your school team, Amber – “

Amber gasps in apparent outrage. “Sixth graders _aren’t allowed to try out_!”

“– and I’m pretty sure your Pee Wee team changes every year, so you better take the drawing in whatever damn color Judy wanted to use and you can say _thank you_.” 

“I _hate_ you,” Amber says scornfully, turning on her heel and stomping off toward the kitchen, probably to whine to her mom. 

“I told you,” Jen tells Judy grimly. “She’s a nightmare.” 

“I should have thought to ask about the colors….”

“Uh, you _should_ draw devil horns on her and give the drawing to her that way. Tell her you fixed it so it’s accurate.” 

+

Amber doesn’t speak to Jen for the entire Christmas Eve dinner; Jen considers it an excellent holiday gift. The boys are much more excited by their portraits when Judy finishes them after dinner: she drew Justin in a Red Sox jersey and hat, holding a baseball bat, and surrounded Nathan by a tower of multi colored legos. 

The family crowds around the living room for awhile after dinner drinking hot chocolate and half watching _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , playing on the TV and constantly interrupted by commercials still trying to sell toys, but luckily the threat of Santa’s imminent arrival gets the kids to bed early. Justin and Nathan leave out a plate of cookies and mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows – no one points out that, if Santa is still en route, the drink will be watery chocolate milk by the time he arrives – and Nathan insists Judy accompany him to the front yard to try to spot Rudolph’s nose in the sky. They come back in after ten minutes and a probable sighting. 

Jen and Judy get ready in Jen’s room before relinquishing it to Grandpa for the night; Jen’s dad’s got the pull out couch set up with sheets and blankets over its thin, creaky mattress by the time they come downstairs with pillows, while her mom and Aunt Susan carry an absurd amount of wrapped presents from their hiding places to the living room, arranging it around the tree now that the kids are safely in the basement for the night. 

Most of the gifts aren’t even for her – though her parents do label a few of her presents from “Santa” to keep up appearances in front of the boys – and Jen still feels embarrassed at the sheer size of the piles. She can remember being Justin and Nathan’s age on Christmas Eve, so excited she could barely sleep, could only lay awake with visions of _stuff_ dancing in her head, toys and videos and brand new dance shoes, so much it really had seemed like magic. 

Jen doesn’t want to wonder too much about what Judy’s Christmases have been like. 

But Judy’s been sparkle eyed and smiling all night, caught up in the holiday spirit, and when the adults have finally finished the set up and cleared the living room, Judy just sits on the pullout beside Jen and whispers, “Nathan was so cute looking for Rudolph earlier...he sung me the whole song in case I hadn’t heard of him.” 

“You don’t have to whisper, they’re on a whole other floor,” Jen tells her. 

Judy raises her voice, but not my much. “He also said since we were sleeping out here, Santa might wake us up, but we should pretend to keep sleeping or else he might run back up the chimney.” She grins. “It’s fun being around little kids for Christmas. They get so excited.” 

“Just be glad Amber’s too old for it now,” Jen says. “She used to bring ‘food for the reindeers’ and make us stand outside in the cold, throwing the shit all over the fucking yard. Birds must’ve loved her.”

“What was the food?” 

“Different stuff. Granola or Chex Mix, mostly. This one year she showed up with Fruit Loops crushed them into powder. It was like scattering the ashes of a rainbow unicorn.” 

Judy laughs. “It’s sweet she still plays along for her brothers. At least with the cookies and everything.” 

“Oh, shit the cookies…” Jen gets up, the pullout's shitty mattress springs whining beneath her. It's the kind of bed that creaks at every little movement. 

“What about them?” 

“Well, if _Santa’s_ not gonna eat them….somebody’s got to.” 

Judy grins and follows Jen into the kitchen, where they quickly devour the personalized cookies the kids all picked out to leave for Santa. The hot chocolate is already room temperature, the marshmallows dissolved, so Jen pours it down the sink. 

They’re back on the couch bed, under the covers, the living room lit only by the Christmas tree lights and the ending of _It’s A Wonderful Life_ – apparently, with commercial breaks, that movie is on for almost four fucking hours – when Jen hears footsteps coming down the stairs. 

“It’s _Santa_!” Jen gasps in mock wonder, the timing just right so Judy cracks up beside her. 

It’s actually Susan, who tiptoes passed them, not turning on a light until she gets to the hallway leading to the kitchen. She’s back less than a minute later, a silhouette in the doorway hissing a stage whisper, “Who ate the cookies the kids left out?” 

Judy answers before Jen can. “Santa Claus?” 

Her voice strikes just the right note of hopeful sincerity, so perfect that Susan actually hesitates for a moment, like she’s wondering if this eighteen year old college freshman might actually believe in Santa, but Jen’s snicker of laugher gives them away.

Susan flips off the hallway light and comes closer for a lecture on how they ate the cookies _incorrectly_ , and were apparently supposed to leave behind a _fraction_ of the cookie, that it makes it more _real_. 

“But isn’t it kind of insulting to not finish the cookies?” Jen asks innocently. “Like Santa didn’t like them much?” 

“Santa _can’t_ finish _all_ the cookies because he eats some at _every_ house.” 

Jen looks at Judy, muttering, “Can’t argue with that.” 

Susan finally goes back upstairs to the guest room, with a slightly stiff goodnight and a reminder for them to cut off the Christmas tree lights so it doesn’t burn the house down. 

Judy looks alarmed at the warning. “I’ll get them.”

The mattress creaks when Judy gets up and creaks again when she returns, the Christmas tree dark now as Judy slides back under the thick layer of blankets; the house always feels a good ten degrees colder in the living room. 

The movie ends, and they watch the beginning of _A Christmas Story_ until Jen decides she can’t deal with another movie split into ten minute chunks by commercials. She flips to their usual sitcom rerun channel, finds and _I Love Lucy_ episode already in progress. “And here we are again!” 

“Hey.” Judy’s foot, which is freezing cold despite their layers, nudges Jen’s thigh. “You know what this means?” 

Jen twitches, pulling her leg away. “Uh, that you need to sleep in socks because you’re at risk of frostbite?” 

“Sorry. My feet are always cold.” 

“Is that what you were talking about?” 

“What? Oh, no, I was talking about _I Love Lucy_ being on. Do you know what that means?” 

Jen glances back at the TV. “That there’s apparently a Christmas episode of _I Love Lucy_?”

“No. It means it’s past midnight.” 

“So?”

“ _So_.” Judy smiles. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Jen echoes. She waits until Judy looks back at the TV and says, with a little too much of her heart in her voice, “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

“Me, too,” Judy answers, and even though Jen’s not looking she can hear her smile. “Best Christmas ever.” 

“It’s only like five minutes old.” 

"Still. It already wins." 

+

It’s not even seven am when Justin and Nathan stampede into the living room, clamoring over the couch bed with no regard for Jen and Judy’s bodies as they announce to the whole neighborhood that Santa came.

The adults emerge soon, bleary eyed but forcing game holiday smiles as they head to the kitchen for coffee. Jen drags herself out from under the covers and brings back full mugs for herself and Judy, then refuses to get up from the pullout, even though folding it back into the couch would free up floor space for the Christmas morning chaos. 

Amber is the last to appear, dragged from the guest room by her impatient brothers, and with all three of them present, the living room carpet becomes a free for all as they scramble for gifts with their names on the tag, ripping into them with no sense of structure.

“Sock’em boppers! Justin, _look_.” Nathan hugs the box to his chest, the image on the front showing two young boys hitting each other with some kind of oversized blow up boxing glove. “I’m gonna sock Ben Hyde in the _face_ when we get back to school.” 

“Nate, baby, I don’t think that’s a school toy,” Susan says calmly, otherwise untroubled by her six year old’s thirst for violence. 

Alongside plenty of videogames and Power Rangers paraphernalia, Justin goes nearly demented with delight over a pair of Nickelodeon moon shoes, which seem to be miniature trampolines that strap onto kids’ feet. Amber’s gifts have gotten smaller this year – in size, not price – with clothes and jewelry being met with genuine enthusiasm, though her favorites seem to be a blow up chair and a fuzzy pink phone that seems to come along with the implied promise of her own personal landline. 

It only takes about ten minutes before the kids presents are all opened and their family has roughly gained the inventory of a small toy store. The atmosphere calms as Jen’s mom and aunt start passing out the other gifts, reading out the names out loud before directing them to the recipient. 

“And these are for Judy….” Maggie smiles warmly and delivers a small stack of gifts to where Judy is sitting by Jen on the sofa bed. 

Judy seems genuinely startled to be given presents, and she turns to look at Jen with a panicked expression, like she’s silently pleading for help. Jen can only shrugs helplessly, not sure what Judy wants her to do.

“You really didn’t have to get me anything,” Judy finally stammers. 

“Of course we didn’t,” Maggie says easily. “But it’s Christmas.” She winks. “Anyway, some of those might be from Santa.” 

There’s more decorum to this round of gift giving, and not much excitement in the adult’s practical exchanges of clothes and gift certificates. Jen isn’t great at giving gifts – the disaster of the California plane tickets proved that – and she takes the childish way out for the extended family, letting her parents include her name on gifts for the kids, Susan and her grandparents even when she has no idea what they’re getting. Her mom was easier this year: Jen got her a box of knitting supplies (her latest chemo hobby), and a few novels (her previous chemo hobby). For her dad, she bought a nice navy blue robe with comically oversized pockets, big enough to fit Yogi in the event his arms ever get tired, and a couple bags of overpriced coffee from a place he likes in Flatbush. 

Jen had gone shopping for Judy’s gifts the morning before Judy’s flight landed in Newark, a directive from her mother, who would have changed some tags on Jen’s own gifts before she let Judy sit there on Christmas morning with nothing to open. 

It was a rushed shopping job, and Jen had gone for quantity over quality, leaving Judy several packages to unwrap: a few packs of her favorite incense, a beanie that matches the scarf Jen got her, a journal with a half sun/half moon on the cover that reminded Jen of a necklace Judy has, and a pack of blank cassette tapes so Jen can show her how to make mixes.

Jen had known Judy wouldn’t be expecting any gifts, but only now – four days and a lifetime of information later – is it beginning to dawn on Jen why gifts might make her feel worse. 

She gets through them gracefully, so effusive in her thanks and explanations about why every item is _perfect_ that Jen hopes she’s the only one who notices the strain behind Judy’s smile. 

Jen’s gone through most of her own gifts fairly quickly: money from her grandfather, gift certificate from Susan’s family, tapes and clothes and a couple new leotards from her parents. But she saves the biggest gift for last – it’s large enough that the boys have been shooting her envious looks ever since it got sorted into the _Jen_ pile – but when she finally pulls it close enough to open, she notices Judy’s name has been added, slightly smaller, on the gift tag.

Jen taps her knuckles on Judy’s knee. “Hey, I think this one’s for both us,” she says in the gentle tone of someone breaking bad news. She tries for a smirk, pointing out the _From_ part of the label. “It’s from _Santa_. Apparently.” 

Judy doesn’t seem inclined to participate in unwrapping the gift, so Jen quickly pulls the wrapping paper off, revealing a small TV with a built in VCR. She grins, momentarily forgetting to worry about Judy’s mood; she hadn’t even thought to ask for this, but her parents knew she’d considered and ultimately decided against bringing her TV back to the dorm room. The new one is small enough for an easy move, and can easily fit on one of their dressers. 

“Thank God, _yes_ , this is perfect....look, Jude, it’s about to be _Facts of Life_ every night in our room,” Jen says, not caring that she sounds like a massive fucking dork. She looks at her parents. “Thank you, _‘Santa’_.”

The air quotes earns her a dirty look from Aunt Susan, even though the boys are ignoring them all in favor of their new 50 pack of Pogs. 

“I have a gift,” Judy blurts out suddenly. She looks back and forth between Jen’s parents, landing on her mom. “I really do, but it’s at Mrs. Oatman’s house, she said I could hide it there…” 

Jen startles at that; when the hell did Judy go to Mrs. Oatman’s? 

Judy keeps talking in a nervous rush. “I was worried about going to get it and waking her up too early, but I don’t want the whole presents part of the day to be over and it seem like I just didn’t have anything…” 

“Oh, believe me, honey, you don’t have to worry about that,” Maggie says. “This is only part one of presents today, when Hank’s parents get here there’ll be a whole other round after lunch.”

Her mom’s tone is light and jokey, but Jen can hear a note of concern reverberating through the assurance. 

“Okay.” Judy’s expression relaxes a little. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Maggie tells her with a smile. “Bet you weren’t counting on getting the sunrise wake up call this morning.” 

“Wish we _couldn’t_ count on that,” Jen’s dad says with a smirk. 

+

Judy ends up going to Mrs. Oatman’s just before Jen’s other grandparents show up with steaming casserole dishes, ready to sit right down for lunch. Between cleaning up the living room and the narrow window of time Jen’s own shower was available – Susan, Amber, and the boys were all using it – all she’s able to get out of Judy is that she stopped by Mrs. Oatman’s while Jen was still at FAO Schwartz. Based on that, Jen’s gathered that Judy’s errand to Hudson Hall was a ruse for some kind of shopping expedition. 

Jen sees her come back in the house, sticking a fairly large gift wrapped in silver paper behind the tree before Jen can get a good look at it. Jen introduces Judy to her grandparents – she wins Jen’s Grandma over right away by saying how much she loved the leftover sweet potatoes from Thanksgiving, earning an arm around the shoulder and a firm assurance they’ll be even better fresh out of the oven – and right away they’re sitting down for lunch. 

Round two of gifts, as her mom referred to it, is a calmer, gentler affair, always scored to the Frank Sinatra Christmas album her grandmother brings over and insists on playing. Grandma and Pops aren’t related to Susan or her kids, but they’ve been sharing Christmas Day ever since Jen’s mom got sick, and since Jen’s their only grandchild, they like bringing gifts for her cousins. Jen gets the same thing from her grandparents every year – a check and a new pair of pointe shoes. There’s another round of dull, adult exchanges, all sweaters and ties and earrings, and Jen catches Judy looking nervous when there are only a few unwrapped boxes left. She grabs her gift from behind the tree and hands it to Jen’s mother, who’s closest, sitting beside Jen on the couch. 

“This is for both of you, you and Mr. Russell – Hank,” she corrects immediately. It’s the first time Jen’s heard her do that so far; she’d seemed immediately comfortable slipping into first names.

Judy hovers awkwardly in front of the couch, and Jen shoots her a reassuring smile, trying to hide the tiny flutter of nerves getting started in her chest. Jen knows Judy’s gifts are always thoughtful, and she knows her mother will gush over whatever she’s given, but the audience of Jen’s entire family, and the fact that Judy didn’t even tell _her_ about this gift, is enough to make her worry.

Jen’s dad comes to stand behind the couch, looking over his wife’s shoulder as she carefully tears away the wrapping, and at the last second Jen looks away from the gift and instead watches her mom’s face: her eyes widen, mouth opening in a soft, surprised little gasp, “ _Oh_.” 

It’s a painting – a dancer, graceful and poised in an arabesque. The figure is dressed in a flowing blue dress, the skirt rendered in brush strokes that streak up and away from the dancer, becoming part of the blue gradient background, as though the motion is turning it into water, or maybe sky. The figure’s face is tilted up, only a sliver of profile visible, showing features just _barely_ recognizable as Jen’s.

Still. Every brushstroke might as well be a photograph. The dress, the high tight bun, even the position; none of it matches, but Jen understands, immediately, that Judy began painting this after that night in the dance studio. She painted it the way it felt. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Maggie exhales the words, her full breath behind them. Her eyes are misty. “Hank, look….” 

Judy’s whole face collapses into a relieved smile. “I hope the size is okay...I still want to order a frame, I’m sorry I didn’t have time…” 

“I don’t know if we even need a frame, the way this canvas is...” Hank says thoughtfully. “What do you think, Mags, above the fireplace?” 

Jen’s mom wipes her eyes and looks up at him. “Will it fit?” 

“Let’s see…here, Judy, mind holding Yogi for me?" He deposits the dog into Judy’s arms, then carefully takes the painting from his wife, walking it around the living room, studying the walls with an analytical expression, holding the canvas up to gauge its size. 

Maggie stands up to hug Judy, who shifts Yogi sideways to hug her back. “It’s beautiful. I love it.” 

Jen’s grandmother chastises Hank for carrying it off before everyone gets a proper look. He brings it back so all three of Jen’s grandparents and Susan can get a look.

“Oh my goodness.”

“Judy! You’re so gifted!”

“Jenny, that’s you!”

Jen’s family continues to _ooh_ and _ahh_ over the painting while her dad goes searching for the tape measure.

Judy approaches her, still cradling Yogi with both arms, and whispers, “I’m so glad they like it.”

“How couldn’t they? It’s...really fucking good, Jude.”

It’s better than good. It’s _incredible._ Jen’s seen enough of Judy’s sketches to know that she's a talented artist. She wouldn’t be at their school if she wasn’t.

But seeing this full sized oil painting of _herself_ doing her _favorite_ thing is almost too much. 

Especially knowing this is the way Judy sees her.

Judy’s eyebrows arch, her entire expression open and hopeful. “So, _you_ like it?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to sound narcissistic since it is a painting of me, but that could go in the fucking MOMA right now.”

Judy rolls her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away. She’s flattered, and she should be.

They're quiet for a moment, watching Jen's family gush over the painting. 

"I started painting it right after fall break," Judy says suddenly, sounding almost shy. 

Jen whole chest is glowing warm. She smiles back. "I kinda thought so." 

+

It’s early in the evening when Jen’s mom suggests that she and Judy take their presents upstairs to make a little extra space in the living room. Jen jumps at the chance to escape another game of Mr. Bucket with the boys, rolling her eyes when Judy apologizes for not getting her stuff out of the way sooner.

“The kids’ shit is all over the fucking place. Your stuff is the least of her concern,” Jen assures, carrying their TV in her arms while Judy hauls everything else that’s theirs upstairs in two large gift bags.

Jen kicks open her bedroom door and sets the TV box in the corner of the room, far out of the way so her grandfather won't trip over it. “We should look through our movie collection before we head back to campus. See if there’s any we want to bring back.”

Judy doesn’t respond immediately, too preoccupied with the task of delicately wrapping her gifts in her clothes and tucking them safely into her suitcase.

“You don’t have to do that now, ya know.”

“I want to,” Judy insists, voice unsteady.

“Hey,” Jen starts as she crosses the room to where Judy’s kneeling over her luggage. “What’s up?”

Judy murmurs that it’s nothing. She’s fine. 

At a loss, Jen reaches for the easy option: teasing. “I’m sorry, I ruined Christmas...I _knew_ I should have picked the journal with the yin-yang symbol.”

Judy’s eyes snap up at Jen, wide and glassy and so sincere that Jen wonders if it’s even possible for Judy to tell a lie. “What? No! I love the journal. It’s just like my neckl– “

“I’m kidding, Jude. Relax.” Jen lowers onto the carpet beside her. She crosses her legs and nudges her knee into Judy’s thigh. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing – _really_. Today’s been perfect.”

“Might want to tell your face.” Jen reaches for the little worry line between Judy’s eyebrows, pressing it gently with her index finger.

Judy exhales and covers her eyes with her hand, head hanging. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She lets her hand drop. “You’re too nice to me.”

Jen laughs one loud, incredulous _HA!_

“I’m serious!” Judy insists, smacking Jen softly on her thigh.

“Jude, I could go get, like, six people right now who would disagree with you.”

“How could they? You invited me here. You picked me up from the airport.” Judy waves her hand over her presents. “You got me all this stuff.”

“Those are from my parents,” Jen argues. “And Santa.”

Judy’s head tilts. _“Santa_ knows I like Autumnal Twilight incense?”

“Well, _obviously_ I had to help the old guy out.” Jen reasons, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, unsure of what else to say. 

She’s used to the land of compliments and praise, rules over it like a queen on a throne. But this place Judy’s brought her to, of heartfelt gratitude and admiration, is unfamiliar territory.

“Look,” Jen starts. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll take something back.” She reaches across Judy and plucks a candy cane from Judy’s stocking that’s overflowing with candy and stocking stuffers, identical to Jen's. Jen uses her teeth to rip the clear wrapping and pops the straight end between her lips.

With parted lips and a wrinkled nose, Judy mock pouts, “What if I wanted that?”

Jen sucks on the peppermint stick and mumbles around it. “Too bad. S’mine now.”

Judy’s eyebrows pinch and without hesitating, she hooks two fingers around the curved end of the candy cane and pulls it out of Jen’s mouth. She smirks, triumphant, and sucks on the end where Jen’s lips had just been.

" _God_ , that's gross," Jen declares.

“Why?” Judy asks, puckering her lips around the candy. “I know where your mouth’s been.”

“Only for the past four days,” Jen shoots back, then abruptly decides not to follow that thought any further.

Judy takes the candy cane out of her mouth, considers it for a moment, then frowns. “You’re right. Who knows what freaky shit you dance people get up to in the studio.”

Jen scoffs. “Did you just call me a slut?”

Judy giggles and points the candy cane at her. “No, _you_ just did.”

Jen snatches the candy from her, puts it in her mouth, reaches into Judy’s bag and takes out her beanie. “Alright, this is going back to the store. Your head can fuckin’ freeze for all I care!”

She hops up and runs for the door, Judy close behind, laughing and spouting apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes
> 
> Runaway Train - Soul Asylum  
> Dreams - Fleetwood Mac  
> Never Going Back - Fleetwood Mac  
> You Gotta Be - Des'ree  
> Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas - Frank Sinatra*


	4. so stay with me and I'll have it made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for your saintly patience, both in the wait between updates and in the very act of reading our, uh, unreasonably long chapters. We are appreciative to the point of embarrassment of everyone who's committed to this thing and leaves such generous time consuming comments (which we know are being written after a time consuming read, so bless you all) that are truly just the fuel of our quarantine. 
> 
> We're @bloomswine on Twitter, so feel free to follow and say hi, or just dip in occasionally because we've gotten into the habit of posting small chapter aesthetics a few days after each update, plus links to the fic playlist on Spotify that we update alongside every new chapter. Thanks again, and hope you enjoy!

Aunt Susan and Jen’s cousins leave after lunch on the 26th, their minivan loaded down with toys and Christmas decorations. Amber gives Judy a carefully torn off magazine spread of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, requesting an autograph in the event that Judy ever returns to “Hollywood” and sees him; Jen sharpie scrawls a signature directly over JTT’s grinning face as soon as they’re gone, claiming she’s going to mail it to Amber after spring break.

Jen’s been complaining that the kids sleeping in the basement has thrown off her workout schedule, so her first basement session the night they leave is a long one. Judy finds her a half hour in, following the sound of TLC down the stairs and getting her first look at the basement. There’s a wooden barre running along one of the walls, just in front of a set of four paneled mirrors mounted onto the cinder block foundation. There’s a rack of small weights pushed against another wall, next to an ancient looking stationary bike and a bin of rolled up yoga mats. Pushed aside to the opposite corner of the room is an old pool table with a radio sitting on top, a few stray cassette cases scattered on the green felt. 

Jen’s in front of the mirror, one hand balanced on top of the barre, heels together, toes pointed in opposite directions while she does some sort of extra flexible squats. Her back is to the steps, so Judy waves at her reflection. 

“Oh, hey.” Jen does four more squats, then turns around to face Judy, switching which hand is on the barre and resuming her routine. Judy picks up on the pattern: every fourth time, Jen goes even lower to the ground. “What happened to Texas Hold ‘Em?” 

Judy moves closer to Jen so they don’t have to yell over the music. She puts a hand on the barre, mirroring Jen. “Your dad was almost out of candy to bet. I felt bad.” 

Jen tilts her head, skeptical. “If that’s you trying to subtly brag about being a poker prodigy, I don’t buy it.” 

Judy lets her mouth hang open, feigning offense. “I’m good! I’ve been playing since I was little...my mom and her friends let me bet with quarters.” 

Jen shakes her head mournfully. “And now you’re hustling my father for his stocking stuffers. Fucking cutthroat.” She smirks. “Also, you’ve got dog hair all over you.” 

Judy looks down at her shirt and smiles fondly at the dusting of white fur. “Yogi sat on my lap for a whole hand of cards before he went back to your dad. Good news though, it took him at least five steps to get there. He even had to jump down from the couch to do it.” 

_“Thrilled_ to confirm he’s still ambulatory.” 

“Ooh, good word.” 

Jen bends at the knees again, and this time Judy dips down with her, maintaining level eye contact and trying to keep a straight face. 

Jen snorts. “Oh, so you’re just gonna grande plié now?” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” 

“Not _well.”_

Judy adjusts her feet and mimics Jen again, this time adding in a graceful flourish with the arm not holding onto the barre. “Better?” 

“Technically, yeah. Because that was only a demi plié.” 

Judy sighs. “I should have taken French as my foreign language.” 

They run through several more reps, maintaining determinedly solemn expressions in some unspoken game of chicken. Judy can’t keep it up for long, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing; Jen notices, triumph flaring in her eyes. She straightens her posture and lets go of the barre. Judy follows suit. 

“What’s next?” 

“Jump training.” Jen smirks. “Think you can handle it?”

“Of course. I’m performing _beautifully,”_ Judy says, grinning when it makes Jen laugh. “Do I need shoes?” 

Jen looks down at Judy’s bare feet. 

“I don’t think it’ll make a difference. Okay.” Jen steps away from the barre, her voice turning bossy in a way that makes Judy want to laugh. “We’re going to do eight jumps from first position, then eight from second, then sixteen changements.”

“Great! Just a couple quick questions.” 

Jen doesn’t wait for her to ask. She poses with her heels together, toes pointed out. “First position.” 

Judy nods, mimicking her. “That’s the one we were just doing.” 

“Right. Now, second position is just…” Jen moves her heels apart, feet still pointing outward. “I’m just going to go ahead and show you all five of them, cause that’s how I learned in the Pre-K class, and I feel like that’s about your level.” 

“That sounds right.” 

After Judy’s pretty much learned the five basic ballet positions, Jen steers them back toward whatever jump training is.

“So, we do eight jumps starting and landing in first position, then eight more with second position. We’ll hold off on changements until you’re ready to switch feet mid-air.” 

Judy makes a show of posing in a perfect first position. “Think I’ll get there soon?” 

“I’m gonna save my assessment for a few minutes,” Jen says dryly. “Ready?” 

Judy checks her feet, then looks up at Jen. “Wait, so...we literally just jump?” 

Jen nods, getting her own feet in position. “Here, I’ll do a rep just to show you…” 

Jen counts out loud, barely even breathless, as she jumps in place. It’s the uniformity that makes it impressive, every muscle working in tandem, strong and precise. 

If Judy tries that, she’s going to look _ridiculous_. 

“What was the other thing?” Judy tells Jen when she finally lands on the ground and stays there. 

Jen’s brow furrows in confusion. “What other thing?” 

“The one we’re holding off...the fancy French word.” 

“Changements?” Jen asks, emphasizing the accent. 

Judy flashes a flirtatious grin. “Ooh, say that again.” 

Jen huffs an exasperated sigh. “A changements is – “

The pitch of Judy’s voice dips low. _“Slower.”_

Jen gives her the finger and doesn’t stop talking. “– a jump from fifth position, but you switch feet in the air. Like…” She demonstrates, making it look easy – like something bodies were made to do. “But don’t worry about that yet. We’re doing eight from one and eight from two. Ready?” 

“Hold on…” 

They wait. “Waterfalls” is playing on the stereo. Jen sighs impatiently. 

“Hold on,” Judy insists. 

She’s waiting on the chorus. 

It hits, and Judy jumps, only once, landing in some approximation of first position but immediately abandoning it, shuffling her feet and shimmying her shoulders to the music. Jen stumbles out of her own landing, she’s laughing so hard. 

“You really get your arms involved, huh?” Jen grins at her, and yes, Judy’s arms are held aloft, moving to the beat in some kind of ‘emphatically point at the sky’ dance move. 

“What, like you don’t?” Judy smiles back, sweetly, and moves her arms in a graceful arc to her side, mimicking Jen’s ballet motions. 

Soon they’re both dancing. Jen shows off occasionally with a changement or a particularly limber dip, her body moving liquid and graceful, like it’s a part of the music. Talent shines off her even when she starts goofing off with Judy, the two of them trading off with the most cliche dance moves, the ancient staples of nightclub dance floors. 

At some point Jen starts laughing again, and Judy follows; she loves them like this, happy and carefree beneath the familiar song of their laughter mixed together. 

+

Jen’s parents order Chinese takeout for dinner and, in an unspoken celebration of the extended family departure, they eat in the living room, directly out of the containers, the television turned to a repeat of _3rd Rock from the Sun._ Before Jen and Judy go upstairs for the night, Jen’s mom tells them she changed the sheets in the guest room, if Judy wants to start sleeping there. They both nod, and Judy says thanks, but neither of them bring it up again. They end up stretched out on Jen’s bed watching her old VHS of _Teen Witch;_ it’s late by the time the movie ends, and Judy just stays where she is. 

Classes have been over for over two weeks, but Jen’s brain has become its own alarm, faithfully jolting her awake every morning around 6:30 am, even without a 7:00 mat class to get to. She usually goes back to sleep fairly quickly, but today her eyes are drawn to the streetlight streaming in through her half curtained window, and Jen feels instantly more alert.

“Judy.” She’s burrowed under layers of covers, Jen’s comforter pulled up to her chin; Jen nudges Judy’s knee with her own. “Jude, hey, wake up.” 

Judy opens her eyes, looking disoriented for a second before they land on Jen. She smiles blearily up at her. “Morning.” 

“Hey...I wanna show you something.” Jen gets out of bed and gives Judy an expectant look. 

Judy rubs her eyes, moving slow to sit up and extract herself from the layers of blankets, but she gamely stands up and follows Jen to the window. 

Jen pulls the curtains all the way to the side, giving Judy a full view of the street, pitch black against the thick, gentle snowfall.

 _“Oh.”_ Judy’s face lights up, any lingering traces of sleep retreating. “It looks like a movie!” 

“Sorry it’s so early,” Jen says. They’re both still whispering, voices stuck on a late night hush. “I was afraid it might stop before you woke up.” 

Judy drags her awed gaze away to smile at Jen. “Can we go outside?” 

They step quickly into shoes and socks, and Jen gives Judy one of her sweaters – it’s big on her and comically oversized on Judy, reaching almost to her knees. The house is dark and still, and Jen and Judy move as quietly as possible down the stairs and out the door. Jen keeps her eyes fastened on Judy as she steps off the front stoop and into the steadily drifting flurries, her head tipping back, palm outstretched, the look on her face nothing short of enchanted. 

Jen can’t even fathom what it must be like, seeing this for the first time – when snow isn’t just another type of _weather_ that arrives every year, a predictable part of the landscape. Jen can’t even remember winters before the most exciting part of snowfall was the scattered days it was enough to cancel school.

Judy, though, will be able to remember this forever. Jen shivers at the thought. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Judy breathes out. Her eyes are sparkling, and there are snowflakes freckling her dark, morning messy hair. Jen looks away, mutters an agreement. 

When it becomes clear dragging Judy back inside would be a cruel and pointless endeavor, Jen goes back into the house for their coats. She has to stifle a laugh when she returns and catches Judy with her tongue out, catching snow like it’s sugar. 

They sit on the front steps, watching the slow arrival of muted daylight, turning the sky from black to gray. When enough snow has settled onto Jen’s dad’s car, Judy makes a beeline for it. She touches the snow on the hood almost gingerly, making tiny canyons with her fingers. 

“It’s softer than I thought it would be,” Judy marvels. 

“You were picturing it more icy?”

“Yeah, I think I was imagining it like a Snow Cone? I don’t even see how…” Her voice trails off. She’s scrutinizing the snow almost clinically, then reaches out with both hands, scooping snow up with her palms and tentatively packing it together into a sphere. Her eyes flare with fresh wonder, and she holds the creation out for Jen’s perusal. “A _snowball._ That really works!” 

Jen grins and takes two big steps away from her. “You’re supposed to throw it at me. If you want the full experience.” 

Judy looks between Jen and the snowball, seeming to consider it. “No, thanks. Not enough material yet for me to give this one up.” She turns back to the car’s hood and starts gathering more. “I’d rather use it to make a very small snowman.” 

“Good call. I think we have some very small carrots in the fridge, if that’ll help. Not sure what to do about a very small top hat, though.” 

“I can maybe craft something...” 

“Of course you can.” 

Jen’s quiet for a moment, watching Judy meticulously roll a slightly smaller snowball, then steps to the side and sweeps her arm across the roof of the car, gathering her own snow supply. She steps close to Judy from behind, feigning like she’s looking over her shoulder, then dumps handfuls of snow down the neck of her sweater. 

Judy yelps and leaps away from her, the top half of her body contorting in a futile attempt to get away from the source of cold. She whips around to look at Jen, wide eyed and a little stunned; Jen smiles innocently. 

“Congrats, you just went through a winter rite of passage,” Jen’s smile tilts and sharpens into a smirk. “I just want you to have an authentic snow day experience.” 

“I appreciate that,” Judy says seriously, shaking snow out of the base of her coat. “In that authentic experience, I’d probably retaliate, right?” 

_“Probably,”_ Jen concedes. “But that’d require using up the materials for your very small snowman. And _this…”_ She waves a hand at the still steady snowfall. “Could stop at any time.” 

Judy flashes her a smile, already reaching for her snowball. “I’ll take my chances.” 

Jen spins on her heel, taking off at a run through the frost dusted patch of grass that constitutes her front yard, but she’s happy for Judy when a snowball nails her in the back of the head. 

“Ha! Gotcha!” 

Jen turns around, grinning, to see Judy’s victorious expression give way to confusion. “Do we keep going? Do you chase me now?”

Jen laughs. “There aren’t really _rules.”_

“Oh.” Judy looks faintly disappointed, so Jen rolls her eyes and shoots her an indulgent smile.

“Do you _want_ me to chase you?” 

Judy nods, biting back a grin.

 _“Fine,_ but you gotta give me a second…” 

Jen scans her surroundings for any surface where snow has gathered. She has to cross into Mrs. Oatman’s yard to scrape the snow off a concrete bird feeder, packing it tight and compact in her bare hands, before running toward Judy again, settling in for what is sure to be the world’s slowest snowball fight. 

+

  
  


The first few days after Christmas pass in a lazy, snow blanketed river, and Judy loves every second of it. As great as the bustling chaos of the extended family holiday was, there’s something especially nice about being here with just Jen and her parents; Judy’s chest gets fluttery every time she and Jen come downstairs for dinner and see _four_ place settings at the table. 

There are certain habits she holds onto, ways to make sure she doesn’t take up too much space in the house, or in conversations. But Jen’s presence lulls her closer to a comfortable state – the house, the parents, the family rhythms may be brand new to Judy, but Jen isn’t, so it’s really nothing like a foster home at all.

Thursday night, Maggie lets Judy pick a restaurant for dinner; no one has cooked since Christmas Day, and Jen says nightly takeout has been their norm for years, so Judy takes the assignment seriously, pouring over the drawer full of menus and asking Jen her parents favorite meals at each place – if Jen can’t think of one, Judy discards the restaurant immediately, assuming it must not be a frequent choice. 

She ends up choosing a Thai place that doesn’t deliver, but Hank went back to work today, and he picks up their order on the way home. Judy’s glad they usually eat at the table, even with takeout; she sits in the same spot every time, next to Jen and across from Maggie. 

It had snowed again last night and most of the morning, piling up thick and bright on yards and sidewalks; Judy just wanted to be outside in it, so she and Jen had spent the afternoon walking around Bensonhurst in winter layers. They’d walked by Jen’s old dance studio and her grandparents house and a favorite ice cream parlor, Jen pointing out each one like landmarks on an autobiographical tour, Judy an enthralled and eager tourist. 

She’s recounting the sights seen to Maggie and Hank over dinner, not even worrying that she’s talking too much, when the phone rings. Hank gets up and crosses to the kitchen to answer, and they all stay quiet, listening while he tells whoever’s on the phone that they’re in the middle of dinner. 

Hank looks at Jen when he comes back to the table. “Scott wants you to call him.” 

Judy glances sideways, sees Jen flush and scowl at the same time. “No, thanks.” 

Hank shrugs, unbothered, as he settles back into his chair. “I made no promises.” 

Jen looks at Judy and explains, “He’s friends with Nora and everybody...probably just calling about the party.” 

Judy nods in understanding. Jen’s gotten a couple calls the last few days from high school friends, including Nora, who’s throwing a New Year’s Eve party. Jen’s never used the term, but Judy’s gathered that Nora was Jen’s best friend before UNY; they went to school together and danced at the same studio. 

Maggie looks at Jen with interest. “This is the New Years Eve party?” 

“Yeah.” Jen’s voice is flat. “I don’t even know if I want to go.” 

“But you always go to Nora’s,” Maggie says with a frown. “You haven’t even seen her the whole break.” 

“Jen, you should go,” Judy says quickly. “If you haven’t been able to see your friends...I don’t mind hanging out here for the night. Really.” 

Jen turns and narrows her eyes at Judy, but before she can say anything, Hank speaks up from across the table. “Sure, Judy can ring in the new year with us and some more Hold ‘Em. Gotta couple chocolate Santas I’d like to win back.” 

Judy grins, but Maggie gives her husband an exasperated look. _“No,_ Hank, the girls should _both_ go to the party.” She makes eye contact with Jen before repeating herself. “You should.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Be good to get out of the house, you don’t want to sit around here all night – “

 _“Mom,_ I said _maybe_ we’ll go. God.” 

Judy winces. Stiff silence falls over the table, and she can’t ignore the urge to fill it. “We could just go for a little while. If it’s lame, you can use me as your excuse! Say I’m sick or bored or something. They can be mad at me, and you’ll be in the clear.”

Judy can live with a bunch of kids from Brooklyn hating her. She can’t live with Jen feeling forced to go to a party because she crashed her winter break.

Maggie reaches across the table and gently takes hold of Judy’s wrist, giving it a single reassuring squeeze. “There won’t be any need for that. Nora’s a sweetheart. I’m sure you girls will have fun.”

Judy casts another sideways glance at Jen, who lets out a resigned sigh: apparently, they’re going to the party. 

+

Judy apologizes as soon as they’re out of earshot of Jen’s parents, heading up the stairs for Jen’s bedroom.

“It’s not _your_ fault,” Jen says, an impatient edge to her voice. “You didn’t bring up the fuckin’ party.” 

Jen waits until Judy’s followed her into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, turning the lock just to be safe; the very last stop on their walk around the neighborhood today had been a nearby bodega that Jen knew would accept her fake ID. They’d snuck two bottles of wine into the house, one in Judy’s bag and the other under Jen’s coat; now, Jen retrieves the first bottle from its hiding place in Judy’s suitcase and pulls a corkscrew from the pocket of her jeans. She’d snagged it while she and Judy were clearing the table. 

Judy’s still hovering oddly by the door. She waits until Jen’s done twisting the wine open, like she needed the tiny pop of the cork to break the silence before asking, “Are you mad?” 

Jen takes a long, much needed swig from the bottle. “No.”

Jen offers the bottle to Judy. She takes it but doesn’t drink, just keeps wide, anxious eyes fixed on Jen.

“I’m not _mad,”_ Jen insists. She turns her back on Judy and crosses the room to her dresser, unbuttoning her jeans to change into the shorts she sleeps in. “Did you really think I’d want to go to the party without you?” 

“I...I don’t know. But I’d understand if you did! With me there, you might not get to catch up with your friends as much. That’s all I meant.” 

Jen sighs, frustrated but ready to let the subject drop. They had a much too similar conversation on Christmas Eve, after Judy offered to sequester herself in the basement for the remainder of the holiday. Jen shouldn’t have to convince Judy, _again_ , that she really does want her around. 

Judy starts talking again, anxiously filling the silence. “But if you didn’t want to go at all...I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to force you into it.” 

“That wasn’t you, that was my mom,” Jen says shortly. “But it’s fine. We’ll go for the booze...Nora’s always well stocked. Speaking of…” She turns around, changed now, and gestures for Judy to give the bottle back. “Let’s get drunk.” 

Judy half smiles, close lipped and cautious, and hands it over. Jen tips the bottle back, and as soon as the wine hits her throat, there’s a knock on the door.

“Shit,” she mutters, then raises her voice. “Just a sec!” Her eyes dart around, looking for a place to hide the wine; she doesn’t have the cork, so she ducks into the bathroom and stands the wine up in the middle of the bathtub, then pulls the curtain closed for good measure.

She opens the door and smiles innocently at her dad, standing there with Yogi and an impatient expression. “Sorry. I was changing.” 

“Hi!” Judy chimes in; she’s resting an elbow on the top of Jen’s dresser, next to the TV, apparently trying to look casual. 

Hank shoots her a quick smile, dropping it as soon as he returns his attention to Jen. “You know Mom’s got her appointment tomorrow at one.” 

Jen feels her stomach clench. “Yeah….” 

Her dad raises his eyebrows. “You okay to go with her?” 

“Why?” It slips out too fast, and Jen immediately adds, “I mean, what’s wrong with Mrs. Oatman?” 

“Nothing’s wrong with her...but seeing as you’re home, I think you can spare a couple hours.” Hank’s tone is mild, but there’s a warning glint in his eye, signalling that this isn’t something she should argue about.

Jen, apparently, can’t help herself. “I just figured, like. Since Judy’s here…” She trails off, hoping her dad will fill in the blanks, realize that she has a _guest,_ she has _company_ , that should get her out of this. He doesn’t. Jen tries again. “She doesn’t want to spend four hours sitting in a hospital.” 

“I don’t mind going,” Judy chimes in.

 _Fuck._ Jen has to grit her teeth to hold back a groan. Judy’s really not reading her well tonight, and Jen doesn’t like it. 

Hank smiles in apparent satisfaction. “Great, that’s settled. I’ll leave the car keys on the counter.” 

He tells them goodnight and leaves, Jen shutting and locking the door behind him. When she turns around, Judy gives her a reassuring smile. “It really is fine with me, Jen, I swear...it’ll be nice keeping your mom company.” 

She’s so painfully sincere. It hits Jen, all at once, why Judy didn’t see right through her razor thin excuse. It isn’t that Judy is reading her wrong; it’s that she has a blindspot for Jen’s worst qualities. Jen sometimes feels like she’s tricked Judy, somehow, by making her believe she’s a better person than she is. 

“Thanks,” Jen murmurs, unable to hold her eyes for very long. She goes to the bathroom and gets the wine, swallowing it down like it might drown the shame pooling in the base of her stomach. 

Jen turns the television to MTV, and it takes a good half hour of music videos and most of the bottle of wine before she can shake off the clinging feelings of unpleasantness and snark about the videos. Jen leaves the last inch of wine for Judy, passing her the first bottle before she gets up and heads for the second, hidden in her closet. 

“Really?” Judy looks skeptically at the second bottle; her voice already has a slight alcohol lilt. “Both tonight?” 

“We haven’t had anything in _weeks,”_ Jen reminds her, keeping the cork in as she flops back on the bed, stretched out on her stomach beside Judy. “But this can just be for me.”

“I mean, if it’s already _open…”_ Judy gives her a hazy grin and takes the wine with one hand, the other reaching over the foot of Jen’s bed to set the empty bottle on the carpet. 

“Didn’t think you’d object,” Jen says with a smirk, stretching out even further and so her cheek is flat on the comforter. She lifts her eyes to meet Judy’s. “Here, give me a sip.” 

“Oh my god.” Judy starts giggling. “You want me to bottle feed you the wine…”

She keeps laughing, but she’s obviously trying to figure out how to do it, holding the corked bottle at experimental angles and frowning in concentration, apparently trying to figure out how to comply without dumping pinot grigio all over Jen’s bedding. Jen turns her head slightly and opens her mouth, the most she’ll help out. 

“Okay, I don’t know if there’s a way to do this that completely guarantees I’m not going to make you drown in wine.” 

Jen lets out a dreamy sigh before propping up on her elbows and reluctantly holding the wine herself. “But what a way to go.” 

Judy starts singing quietly along with the TV, which is playing that Blind Melon video MTV’s been obsessed with for the last three years. Jen watches for a moment. “I had a pretty similar bee outfit for dance once.” 

The very mention of a dance costume makes Judy’s eyes flare in delight. “Wait, really? Where was that in the home movies?”

“Predates the video camera, thank God. I was like three.” 

Judy’s bottom lip actually pokes out. “Aw, you danced when you were _three?”_

“Yeah? You already saw videos of when I was five.” 

“Three’s different, though. Three is like...you’re barely not a baby.” The phrasing makes Jen laugh. “Your bee costume must have been tiny.”

“It was...it _is._ The bee’s one of the costumes my mom made early on and she was overly proud of all those, so. It’s in the permanent collection.” 

“And where might that collection be housed?”

Jen waves a hand in the direction of her closet. “They’re all fuckin’ in there.” 

Judy’s off the bed in seconds. 

“Top rack,” Jen tells her, as if the row of tulle and sequins might be hard to spot. She drinks more wine. 

Judy emerges from the closet with Jen’s bee outfit on its hanger. “It _is_ tiny. I love that your mom made it, it’s so adorable...I’d wanna be that kind of mom, you know? Making homemade costumes for dance class or Halloween or whatever.” 

Before Jen can figure out how to respond to that, Judy spins on her heel and ducks back into the closet. “It’s a lot sparklier in here than anything I saw at the school’s recital…” 

“Yeeeeeah…” Jen turns the volume down on the TV. “Competition judges _loved_ a sequin. Supposedly.”

“Ooh, what’s _this_ from?” Judy emerges with a bright red outfit: low cut sequined top and sheer, gauzy skirt. She holds it up against her chest. “I feel like this was _definitely_ worn in the post video camera era, and yet…” 

“Partnered dance,” Jen explains lazily; they’d only shown Judy solos the other night. “Kinda jazzy number, we placed second, totally Gabe’s fault it wasn’t first.”

“When was this paltry second place finish?” Judy asks.

“Ummm. Junior year. I think.” 

Judy unfurls a slow, easy smile. “You should put it on.” 

“No way.” 

Judy tilts her head, lower lip poking out again. “Please?” 

“No, fuck you, _you_ put it on.” 

Judy grins. “Okay!” 

“What? Jude, I was _kidding.”_

But Judy’s shirt is already off. She tosses it on the bed, and Jen makes a laughing, half-hearted attempt at catching it. Jen pivots on the bed, so she’s stretched out facing Judy instead of the TV; she sips from the wine bottle. 

“Wait, turn around,” Judy tells her.

“Why?” Jen makes a face, ignoring the warmth flooding her cheeks. Fucking wine. 

“So it’s a _reveal,”_ Judy insists with a grin. “I mean it, don’t look!”

 _“Fine,”_ Jen rolls her eyes showily but rolls over, pulling the comforter over her head. The dramatics make her dizzy. “Oh. Fuck. I’m _drunk.”_

“Me too I think a little,” Judy says in a rush. Under the blanket, Jen laughs at her. “It’s not the most...straightforward outfit _…shit.”_ There’s a thud.

“Uh, should I come out?” 

“No, no, it’s okay, I just kinda accidentally kicked the wall...not hard! I think it’s fine. Hold on...you know, I don’t think this is meant to be worn with a bra.”

“Uh, it’s _definitely_ not.” Jen jerks the comforter off her head and finds Judy frowning down at her chest, where the light gray material of her bra is far too visible beside the flashy red sequins. 

Jen starts to laugh. Judy looks up and meets her eyes playfully pouting. “Hey! You fucked up the reveal.” 

“It’s...it’s still a reveal,” Jen says breathlessly, still caught in a wine fueled stream of laughter.

Judy squints at her, mock offended. “Okay, I know it looks a _little_ silly with the bra, but this seems excessive.” 

“I’m not laughing at that,” Jen insists. “I just...I’m picturing you doing the partnered dance number…” 

Judy grins, giving up on the bra situation and striking a dance adjacent pose, complete with jazz hands. “The _jazzy_ dance number, right?” 

“Oh my god.” 

“With, um...what was his name?” 

“Gabe Wallace.”

“With Gabe Wallace.” Judy starts kicking her legs like a magnificently stunted Rockette, and Jen half covers her face with one hand, laughing hard against her palm. “What do you think, could I hold down second place?” 

“Oh, no, you’d have won. _Easy.”_ Jen offers the wine bottle and gives Judy an ostentatious once over. She’s still kicking her legs, fingers still fluttering. “I mean, not even _Gabe’s_ second place ass could have dragged this down.” 

Giggling, Judy takes the wine, sips it, and immediately hands it back. “Wait wait wait, one thing I gotta try before I take this off...” 

She checks her surrounding area, then begins spinning in a circle, the red skirt ballooning around her legs, twirling with her.

“You’re fuckin’ gonna make yourself sick,” Jen informs her. 

Judy’s smiling when she stops, feet stumbling slightly. “Whoa. Not a good idea drunk.” She closes her eyes and draws an audible, centering breath. “Okay, there’s another costume I _have_ to try on…”

“If this is about to be a full fucking _fashion show,_ then we’re gonna need photo documentation,” Jen says, looking around the room for one of the disposable Kodak cameras they’d both gotten in their Christmas stockings. They took one of them out today, using up half the roll walking around the neighborhood in the snow. 

“For it to be a fashion show, I’d have to actually know how to _wear_ this.” Judy’s voice echoes from inside the closet, but before Jen has to ask what she means she emerges with another hanger, draped with what looks like loosely connected pieces of black fabric. 

Jen starts laughing as soon as she sees it. “Yeah, my dad _hated_ that one.”

“I bet.” Judy’s studying the costume with an analytical air, turning the hanger and examining from all angles. “You’re sure this is considered clothing?”

“Uh huh. But you’re looking at it backwards.” 

“Wait, so it’s, like…” Judy flips it around, looking more confused than before. “The head goes here?” 

“I think so….I sharpied an F on the inside to show where the front is.” 

“I can’t even tell what the _inside_ is. How old were you when you wore this one?”

“It was just last year.” 

_“What?_ How did your boobs not pop out?” 

“They were very aggressively imprisoned with tape. And I literally had to hairspray my whole chest so it’d stick.” Jen smirks. “Which, if you’re up for it…”

“You…,” Judy taps her finger against the tip of Jen’s nose, “...should know I’m always up for anything.”

Jen clicks her tongue and curls her finger around a strip of chiffon. “That might change after this.” Judy rolls her eyes and grabs the skirt of the dress she has on, but before she can pull it off, Jen grabs her wrist. “Wait! We need a picture.”

“Oh! Right.”

Jen steps backwards to get a full body shot. She brings the camera up to her face and through the lens, watches Judy reach around her back, unsnap her bra, and pull her arms in through the straps. Jen lowers the camera an inch. “What are you doing?”

“It looks bad with it on,” Judy explains, tossing her bra onto the bed. “I don’t want that captured on film forever.” She reaches into the dress, adjusting her boobs so that the bodice of the dress clings in all the right places.

Judy anchors her hands on her hips. “How should I pose?”

“Like you’re dancing.”

“So...like this?” Judy pops one hip and points her opposite hand towards the ceiling, finger pointed like she’s leading in _Saturday Night Fever._

Laughing, Jen brings the camera back to eye-level and snaps a picture.

Judy stumbles out of the pose, blinking wildly. “Shit, those flashes are bright.”

“You’re just drunk,” Jen counters, setting the camera down on her desk. She picks up the hanger with the labyrinth of a costume. “Ready for this?”

“The show must go on, right?”

Judy spins around so that she’s facing Jen’s closet and pulls the red dress over her head. She’s careful hanging the costume, treating it like something delicate and breakable, and Jen’s just staring at her bare back, feeling dopey and drunk.

Judy smiles over her shoulder. 

“Ready!” She announces, holding her arms out at her sides so that Jen can put the costume on her from behind.

Jen slips the fabric over Judy’s shoulders. “Okay, so this part goes over your head, and then – yeah, the thicker straps – hold those against your boobs. I’ll tie the rest.”

Jen’s mind flashes back to the dressing room before the group number where six other girls were wearing this exact outfit for their angsty lyrical dance. They took turns helping tie and tape each other into the costume between whispered anxieties and jokes about the costume falling off mid-routine. It had been fun, and a little daring, parading in front of the audience in sexy costumes, a more grown up Halloween.

Now, Judy’s tipsy and giggling, having the same kind of fun. Except it’s not for a crowd; it’s only for Jen.

“It’s so soft,” Judy says, gently stroking the material.

“Yeah, it definitely could have been worse,” Jen says, looping the gauzy fabric around Judy’s midriff. “Our instructor was considering this pleather thing at first, but she changed her mind. Thank god. You sweat like a pig in those.”

Judy snorts. “Sounds sexy.”

“Yeah, nothing sexier than covering yourself in baby powder so you can quick change into a tutu,” Jen murmurs. 

She secures the clasp on the back of the skirt, which, in truth, could barely be considered one. It’s three inches of opaque fabric with torn, sheer strips hanging from the waist.

“There,” Jen says, hands settling on Judy’s hips when she’s done. She pats them twice. “You’re in.”

She takes a step back so Judy can check her reflection. When her eyes find the full length mirror, her jaw drops.

“Oh. My. _God.”_ Judy lowers her hands, letting her chest rest freely against the chiffon. It leaves little to the imagination. She turns, and is greeted by a hint of side boob. “Holy shit! I can’t believe you danced in this.”

“Neither can I.”

Judy stares at herself for a moment, shifting from side to side, pulling her hair over one shoulder, then lifting it into a makeshift twist and re-examining the whole outfit again.

Jen presses the back of her hand to her cheek and scowls. She’s feverish. She catches Judy’s eyes in the mirror.

Judy lets go of her hair. It falls down her back in a messy tide of dark brown waves. She smirks. “Hot?”

“It’s the wine,” Jen insists.

Judy hums and picks up the camera. “So, you wanna picture?”

“Oh, no. I was just kidding about, with the whole fashion show thing. You don’t have to. Not in that one.”

Judy shrugs, holding out the camera. “It’s okay. It’s just for us, right?”

“And whatever pimple faced kid at CVS develops them,” Jen mumbles, taking the disposable.

“Well, isn’t he lucky?” Judy jokes and strikes a pose.

Behind the camera, Jen grins. The flash goes off. 

Judy relaxes the pose and looks down at herself. “I feel like the only way to dance in this is like...if the torso stays completely still.” 

“Well that’s perfect for you, since you mainly dance with your arms.” 

“True. I can still do a lil of this…” Judy’s arms snake into the air, moving freely as she stiffly pivots her hips from side to side. 

Jen cracks up. She takes another photo, stocking the camera with the full range of Judy – from confident flirt to giddy dork in under thirty seconds. 

+

Jen’s alarm clock goes off at nine thirty in the morning, optimistically set with intentions of a morning workout, but given that Jen feels like someone’s jammed a bottle of wine between her eyes, she quiets the alarm and resets it for eleven. On the other side of the bed, Judy sleeps through it. 

When the alarm goes off at eleven, Jen isn’t any less hungover. 

Being upright only makes it worse, turning Jen’s stomach weak and watery in addition to the headache. She drinks two cans of ginger ale from the fridge before they leave for the hospital; they keep a decent soda stockpile for Jen’s mom and the days of nausea that follow a chemo treatment, but Jen’s hoping it works on her hangover, too. Judy claims to have a headache, but you wouldn’t know if from looking at her, or listening to her cheerful chat with Jen’s mom about knitting, prompted by the bundles of yarn peeking out the top of Maggie’s well stocked chemo bag. Before they leave, Jen’s mom pops a pill that Jen knows is supposed to combat the nausea.

She wishes she could snag one for herself. 

There’s no reason her mother can’t drive _to_ the hospital, but she still hands Jen the car keys as they’re leaving the house. It takes forty-five minute to get to the fancy, high ranked hospital where her mom gets treatment, and Jen fucking _hates_ driving in Manhattan. The sky is blank and off white, dull but still bright enough to make Jen’s headache pound harder. Any snow that’s left has turned ugly, piled in dirty clumps along sidewalks. 

It’d be a shitty start to a day even if they _weren’t_ about to spend four hours in a hospital.

There’s a parking garage, at least, and a bridge that takes them straight into the building. Jen’s mom spends the walk giving Judy a run down of the chemotherapy cast of characters. Jen outpaces them, leading the way to the oncology wing and keeping her eyes low. Her mom has always said that the stares her hair loss provokes are never as bad as in a hospital, where people tend to look at her as if she’s on her way to the morgue. Jen doesn’t enjoy the joke – she kind of hates all her mom’s attempts at gallows humor, thinks there’s something gross and desperate about it – and if there’s truth to it, she’d rather not see.

She’s safe to look up when they get to the oncology wing; it’s been a couple years since Jen’s had to go there, but she still knows the way on instinct. 

There are only three other people in the chemotherapy treatment room: a grandmotherly woman wearing an obvious wig and slowly working a pair of knitting needles, a man who looks a little younger than Jen’s mom, thinning hair beneath Mets cap, and a woman sitting in a visitor’s chair beside him. They all greet Maggie with warm familiarity, and she introduces them to Jen and Judy – Bonnie, Paul, Paul’s wife Amy. They all smile at Jen with recognition. Amy grins at her and says, “Oh, she _looks_ like a dancer,” while Bonnie pats Maggie’s knee and gushes, “Oh, I know you’re so happy to have her home!”

Jen used to keep mental track of her mother’s chemo buddies, but she can’t see the point of it anymore. Those friendships never end well: either they die, or they get better and stay better and drift away. Either way, Jen doesn’t want to hear about it. 

So she gives thin, hungover smiles and mutters _nice to meet you’_ s, then leaves them with Judy’s warmer greetings, crossing the room to get visitors chairs for her and Judy. She drags them back to where her mom is getting settled into the patient chairs that are valiantly trying to resemble comfortable furniture. 

“Sorry you girls don’t get comfy seats,” Maggie says with a grin, patting the faux leather armrest. “This is our one patient perk, so we get a tad territorial about it.” 

Judy laughs but Jen doesn’t. She’s heard her mom make that joke before. 

Maggie introduces Jen and Judy to two nurses who are setting up her IV, and then there’s nothing to do but wait for the chemo drip to finish; it will take nearly four hours – a slow, toxic hourglass. 

Jen’s mom takes out her knitting; apparently, it’s already been decided that she’s going to teach Judy to knit. Maggie asks Jen, obviously half joking, if she wants to learn. Jen makes a face in response, and Maggie smirks. “Shouldn’t have asked.” The lesson begins, with plenty of feedback from Bonnie, who apparently taught Maggie. Judy picks out pale yellow fabric to turn into a doily, apparently the simplest way to learn. 

Jen gets up and heads for a table across the room that’s strewn with outdated magazine selections; she takes her time pouring over the meager options before settling on an ancient _People_ magazine, Meg Ryan gracing the cover of a Most Beautiful People issue that isn’t even from this year. When Jen gets back to her chair, Bonnie is telling Judy about the matching scarves she made for her daughter’s family, and opening the magazine rather than listening seems rude.

In between Maggie’s patient instructions and corrections on Judy’s knitting technique, Judy learns the names and ages of Bonnie's grandchildren and Amy and Paul’s sons, as well as the favorite sport or hobby of each kid. Jen recognizes this mode Judy’s in from school, her friendly interest in people she just met apparently a constant, whether it’s deployed at a house party or an oncology ward. One of the nurses comes back, and Judy greets her by name before complimenting the “adorable” teddy bears on her scrub top – privately, Jen thinks it’s kind of dumb choice if you don’t work in pediatrics, but whatever. 

When they’ve been there an hour and a half, Paul’s treatment finishes; he and Amy say goodbye, Amy mostly looking at Judy when she says, “It was so nice to meet you girls.” 

“Hey, Mom, you want anything from the vending machines?” Jen’s question comes out a little too loud. It’s the first time she’s spoken in over twenty minutes, though the conversation never slowed enough for her to pick up the magazine. 

Maggie lightly rattles the massive metal thermos sitting on her chair’s folded table top. “I think I’m covered, sweets.”

Jen frowns. “What about a snack or something?” 

“I’ve got a few things in my bag.” She half smiles. “Vending machine selection gets old fast.” 

“Oh. Okay, I still might just…” Jen stands up, glancing over at Bonnie, who’s munching from a sleeve of Saltines and has her own oversized thermos – though hers is from the hospital’s gift shop, which strikes Jen as extra depressing. “I’m gonna grab a soda.” 

Maggie clears her throat pointedly. “You’re not gonna ask Judy if she wants anything?” 

“I already know what she wants,” Jen says dismissively, earning a grin from Judy. 

Jen goes to the vending machines on a whole different floor, getting sodas and a bag of Famous Amos, the only cookie option in the snack machine. When she makes it back to the treatment room, there’s a nurse standing between Maggie and Bonnie's chairs, the one with Christmas elves on her scrub top instead of teddy bears, but Judy probably remembers her name, too. Jen slows down, hovering in the doorway for a moment, watching Judy: her sweet smile, eyes bright and engaged with whatever the nurse is saying even as her hands continue to work the knitting needles. Jen hasn’t been paying much attention to Judy’s progress with her yellow doily, but it wouldn’t surprise Jen if Judy turns out to be a knitting prodigy – she’s so good at every other aspect of being here.

It’s not like there’s much to it. This sort of day spent in the oncology ward is _nothing_ compared to some of the ones Jen’s had. Her mom doesn’t even feel that bad during the actual treatment, most of the time; the vomiting and chills don’t kick in until they’re back home. At _most,_ she’ll fall asleep. 

They’ve been here for almost two hours, both of them entirely mundane. And Jen still can’t fucking stand it.

Maggie finally spots Jen and gives her an odd look for standing in the doorway. Judy follows her gaze and turns, smiling in greeting, so Jen rejoins them and hands Judy her soda. Judy’s eyebrows hitch at the sight of the cookies. “Those for you or me?” 

“Me,” Jen answers, lips quirking into a tiny smirk. “But I’ll share.” 

The nurse leaves, but she’s back within half an hour to help a new patient, a guy who looks like he’s only a few years older than Jen and Judy who still has a few visible curls poking out of a gray beanie. He says hello to Maggie and Bonnie but as soon as he’s settled into his seat, he puts headphones on and closes his eyes. Not long after, Bonnie puts down her knitting and covers herself with a quilt she made herself, drifting off to sleep. 

Jen finally picks up her magazine, and Judy seems to want Jen to share all fifty beautiful people from 1994 as she flips through the pages, but the joint presence of Meg Ryan and Julia Roberts gets her and Maggie talking about romantic comedies. Jen allows herself another break halfway through the third hour, claiming she’s going to the bathroom but really sneaking outside to smoke half a cigarette. When Jen returns, the subject has changed and her mom is telling Judy about her own move to New York after college, which soon leads to the detailed story of Jen’s dad proposing. 

The nurse in the elf scrubs comes back, but not to perform any medical duties – she just pops in with framed photos of her two year old daughter and her french bulldog, both pictures shown off with seemingly equal pride, the photo evidence an extension of whatever conversation Jen missed during her vending machine trip. Jen watches Judy exclaim over the cuteness of both the toddler and the dog and thinks about what Judy would be like in Jen’s position: she’d probably have come to every possible appointment, be one of those patient relatives who bake cookies for the hospital staff and know everyone’s life story. She’d have probably shaved her fucking hair off at some point in solidarity, worn matching mother/daughter headscarves, the whole thing. 

God. Jen’s mom really got stuck with the wrong kind of daughter. 

When the nurse leaves and they’ve all learned the relevant stats on both the dog and the kid, Maggie shoots Judy a fond smile and says, “Jude, you sure do ask a lot of questions.” 

There’s a teasing note in her mom’s voice, but Jen still winces. _“Mom.”_

Judy’s face is already falling, her eyes flickering with panic. “I, I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m totally talking too much, and I’m probably being really nosy – “

“Oh, honey, no, that’s not what I meant,” Maggie corrects hastily. “You’re so good about getting to know other people...I was just gonna turn the tables on ya.” 

“Oh, so, like...you want to ask _me_ questions?” 

“Mmhmm, but only if you’re up for it. Nothing too nosy, I promise.” 

Judy nods, still a little hesitant. “Of course!”

Maggie gives her a reassuring smile, but Jen feels herself tense waiting to hear her mom’s _questions._

“What made you decide on New York for school?” 

Judy’s features relax completely, and Jen does, too. 

“So, okay, I applied to a bunch of different schools with good art programs. UNY is one of the best, I was kinda shocked I even got in….I didn’t think going out of state would be an option, but I had some scholarships already and they ended up offering the best financial aid, so that kind of decided it.” Before Maggie responds, Judy frowns and adds, “They weren’t art scholarships or anything like that! That probably sounded braggy, but they weren’t, um...my old social worker really helped me with the whole college thing. She told me about grants and scholarships for foster kids, those...those are what I got. Nothing impressive.” 

Maggie’s eyes soften. “Well, I know a _little_ bit about the arts programs at that school, and I think getting accepted is _plenty_ impressive.”

Judy’s smile is slow and surprised, her face flushing pink at the compliment. 

“Next question,” Maggie says, playfully formal. “I know both you girls have to keep your options open with the artsy degrees...but I also know Jen’s dream job is dancing on Broadway. So. What’s yours?” 

Judy looks uncertain, and after a few beats pass without an answer, Maggie prompts encouragingly, “Painting in Paris? Your own gallery shows?” 

Judy’s eyes gleam. “Paris _does_ sound amazing. But I don’t know...I’m definitely not going to be a famous painter or anything. I mean, _no one_ becomes a famous painter.” 

“Picasso did,” Jen points out.

Judy flashes her a smirk. “Fine, _hardly_ anyone becomes a famous painter. _Anymore._ I’m probably not good enough to make a living just selling my stuff, anyway. That’s super hard to do. Even if a few of my paintings were just up in, like, a coffee shop or a library someday, that’d be incredible. But I met this woman once, she was kind of an art teacher, but not at schools. She did classes at like, teen group homes and children’s hospitals and places like that. I’ve always thought that sounded like a good job.” 

Judy’s told Jen that before, about the art teacher she met; only now does she realize Judy was quite possibly in one of the group homes where she was teaching. 

“You’d be _great_ at that,” Maggie says sincerely, then she grins. “But I know we’re gonna hang onto our Judy Hale original...could be worth a fortune someday. We’d never agree to sell, of course, but we’d take the bragging rights.” 

Judy beams. Her eyes dart to Jen’s, like she wants to make sure she heard.

When the IV bag has finally emptied and a nurse comes over to remove it and take Maggie’s vitals, Jen heads to the parking garage alone and pulls the car to the closer exit so her mom doesn’t have to make the walk. She doesn’t mind the drive back to Brooklyn as much, even though it takes an extra half hour in the Friday evening traffic; it’s at least her one solid contribution to the day. Her mom drifts off in the passenger seat before they reach the Brooklyn Bridge, and Judy’s quiet in the backseat, happily admiring her near completed doily.

Jen’s mom stirs awake when Jen pulls the car to a stop, parking just in front of the house. She gives Jen a tired smile, then tilts her head to aim it at the rearview mirror, seeking eye contact with Judy. “Thank you both for coming today.” She pats Jen on the arm. “I know it’s not the most fun place to spend a day on your break.” 

There’s a pause, but when Jen doesn’t answer, Judy leans forward from the backseat and says, “Oh, I’m glad we went! I had a good time.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Judy’s eyes widen in alarm, her face flushing. “I, I mean, not that I’m glad you had to go to the hospital at _all,_ I just –”

Maggie chuckles lightly and cuts her off. “It’s alright, I know what you mean. I had a good time today, too...bad time usually kicks in tomorrow.” Her smile slips, but only for a second – she’s gotten good at recovering it. “That Bonnie's a character, isn’t she?” 

Judy agrees vehemently and Jen finally unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out of the car. When they’re all in the house, Maggie goes to her bedroom to rest, but not before finding a knitting instructional book and gifting it to Judy, apparently a thirdhand gift that started with Bonnie. Judy wants to learn to make a scarf. 

Jen waits until she hears the door to her parents room shut, when she’s halfway up the stairs, Judy trailing her. Then, not turning around to look at Judy, she says, “So you and my mom are gonna be a fuckin’ knitting circle now?” 

The words come out so much sharper than their usual teasing, Jen’s glad she isn’t looking at Judy’s face, can’t see if they leave a mark. 

It takes a few seconds for Judy to murmur a response, sounding more confused than anything. “I dunno...it was just kinda relaxing.” 

“Glad you enjoyed yourself,” Jen says, shoving her bedroom door open. Judy doesn’t answer this time, and guilt kicks hard at Jen’s stomach. Even her _mom_ just said she had a good time, and Jen actually believes her; she also knows that had nothing to do with her. 

“Sorry,” she mutters with her eyes downcast, the apology aimed at the carpet. 

“It’s okay.” Judy says it like a reflex, not a single heartbeat between the apology and her acceptance. Like she’s finishing a sentence with no other possible ending. 

Jen retrieves a pack of cigarettes and her lighter from their current hiding spot, wedged into her bookshelf behind _Harriet the Spy,_ and crossed the room to open her window, facing out of the side of the house so even when her dad gets home from work, which should be anytime now, he won’t notice the smoke. Her desk is the closest surface, so she shoves aside her radio and a couple of tapes they’ve had on heavy rotation the last few days to perch on top of it, flicking her lighter and breathing in. 

Judy sits on Jen’s bed, and Jen watches out of the corner of her eye as Judy opens the knitting book but catches herself almost immediately and shuts it again. Such a small, quick moment, but it gets Jen’s guilt pummeling her again. 

“Are you alright?” Judy asks after a while, making it, somehow, even worse. 

“Yeah….just fucking _hate_ it there. Always need a few minutes to shake it off.”

It’s a flimsy explanation, but still Judy’s face is all soft understanding. She nods. “That makes sense.” 

Jen finishes the cigarette with a couple more deep drags. There’s ash on the carpet. 

“Hey, uh, thanks for going today. And for letting my mom teach you to knit...think it really helped the time pass faster.” 

It’s so fucking inadequate, a tiny fraction of the gratitude Judy deserves but still probably more than she expects, given the way her whole face sweetens with a sudden, surprised smile. 

+

Jen’s dad brings home a pizza but doesn’t join them for dinner, so they eat their slices straight out of the box, on the living room floor in front of the TV, before returning upstairs to Jen’s room for the night. Jen’s been quiet all night – all _day,_ really. There’s a guilty relief to stretching out on her bed and drowning out the quiet with a movie, but Judy still wishes she could come up with something better to say.

By morning, it’s easy and familiar between them again, and Judy’s hyper and talkative out of sheer relief. She’s gotten in a habit the last several days, since Jen’s cousins left, of going down to the basement with Jen during her morning workout. 

Sometimes Judy joins her at the barre for a few minutes, proving she remembers the feet positions Jen taught her, but mostly she sits on the stagnant exercise bike, a blanket draped over her shoulders and her knees propped up, sketching with slow, staggered progress between watching Jen stretch and jump.

They spend most of the day out of the house, taking the train to a different part of Brooklyn and wandering around thrift stores and record shops Jen knows. Judy’s never been to a record shop with an actual listening booth, and she goes scrambling through the racks for something familiar, ultimately grabbing a 45 of “Give Me One Reason” and dragging Jen and the record into the booth. It's a little strange, crowding shoulder to shoulder in the booth, the whole store and all its browsing customers still visible through the glass door as Tracy Chapman sings for only the two of them. Judy isn’t quite sure where to look, just standing in place listening to the song; her eyes keep roaming idly before returning, inevitably, to Jen, their gazes catching as they swap grins, both self consciously nodding along to the music. 

“It’s soundproof, right?” Judy asks. 

Jen half smirks and nods. “That _is_ kinda the point.” 

Judy grins and immediately starts singing along, louder and more expressive than necessary just for the dare of it. Jen feigns embarrassment, covering her eyes with a hand and peeking through a crack in her fingers. A middle aged man passes right by the booth door, a stack of cassettes in hand, and double takes at the sight of Judy. Jen cracks up so hard she has to lean against the side of the booth, and Judy dissolves right beside her, laughter overtaking her singing. 

She doesn’t have a record player, but Judy buys the single anyway. 

Later that night, Judy rips open the package of blank cassette tapes she got for Christmas, and Jen shows Judy how to make tapes on her dad’s stereo. She needs time to consider before making a real mix, picking out the tracks to accompany Tracy Chapman, but there are at least a dozen albums in Maggie and Hank’s collection Judy wants to tape. She and Jen end up settled onto the floor of the living room, while the records spin through every track, keeping the stereo volume low in case Jen’s parents are asleep.

They play cards for awhile – Jen’s house has more specialty decks than the game closet in the dorm’s basement, and Jen teaches Judy Phase 10 and Dutch Blitz when she gets tired of losing to Judy at Hold ‘Em – but around midnight, Jen deems it safe enough to pull out the vodka they’d bought on the way home, adding shots to glasses of ginger ale and keeping the bottle out of sight on a shelf. After that, they abandon the games, sipping their drinks and talking in lazy, content circles while Judy tapes every Joni Mitchell album Maggie owns, the vocals delicate and soft in the dim light of the living room.

It’s after one am when they hear a door open from the bedroom down the hall, a light going on and the sound of footsteps moving in the direction of the kitchen. Jen immediately sets her glass on the shelf, less noticeable, even though by all appearances it’s just a soda. Judy does the same, and soon Hank appears in the living room, silhouetted in the light in the hallway.

“Is the music too loud?” Jen asks. 

“No, no, couldn’t even hear it.” He lifts his hand, indicating the soda and fresh trash bag he’s holding. “Mom’s just not feeling great.”

Jen’s face seals up, and she starts gathering up the discarded Phase 10 cards. Uncertain, Judy asks, “Is there anything we can do?” 

Hank smiles slightly. “Nah, we’re all good. It happens, she’ll be fine.”

He tells them good night and retreats back to the bedroom, the hallway turning dark again, a pained sympathy tying Judy’s stomach into knots. She had seen Maggie a few hours ago, her first glimpse since the hospital, and it had been startling. The ever present headscarves make it hard to forget Maggie is sick, even when she seemed otherwise fine – Judy had realized it the second she walked into the kitchen that first day, but tonight it was different. Skin pale, eyes glassy and ringed with dark half moons. Her eyes are Jen’s eyes, too, their features uncannily identical when considered on their own, and that made it hurt to look at them. She’d only emerged for a half hour or so, joining them for dinner – even with all four of them, they still didn’t eat at the kitchen table, just in the living room with plates on their laps, maybe to disguise the meager amount of food Maggie finished. 

Judy looks at Jen, afraid of the thick, unbreathable silence moving in again. But Jen just retrieves her drink and takes a long sip, nearly finishing it, then looks at Judy. “It’s always like this, the first few days especially.” 

“Your mom told me. I mean, she told me a little bit. Also, one of my foster father’s, his sister was doing chemo when I lived with them. She’d stay over a few days, sometimes, since the best hospital was in the city and she lived a couple hours north….” 

Judy pauses, then blurts out, wanting to fill the silence before it can settle. “What are your mom’s feelings on pot?” 

The question seems to startle away any traces of discomfort left on Jen’s face. “Uhhh. I know she feels like I shouldn’t smoke it…” 

Judy laughs, out of relief at the normalcy in Jen’s voice as much as anything. “Oh, yeah. I guess that makes sense. I just meant, because my foster dad would sometimes get stuff for his sister, and apparently it really helped with the nausea or whatever. So I was just wondering.” 

Jen scoffs. “If I offered to get my mom some weed, I’m pretty sure she’d have a lot of fuckin’ follow up questions. Probably not worth it.” 

+

  
  


The next day is New Year’s Eve, and, a little surprisingly, the plan to go to the party has held. Jen explains that Nora held it every year in high school, since her parents' anniversary is on New Year’s Day, and they traditionally spend a week after Christmas in Saint Thomas. It’s a typical keg and gin bucket house party, according to Jen, but the holiday element makes people go a little dressier than the identical parties held after basketball games or last days of school. Judy considers her outfit options carefully, and finally picks the dressiest thing she has with her: a dark red velvet dress, with long sleeves and a skirt that stops above the knee. She borrows black tights from Jen and decides to pair them with her black Doc Martens, a counter to the dress’s slight formality. 

She and Jen do their hair and makeup side by side in front of her bathroom mirror even though one of them could use the vanity in Jen’s bedroom, and it’s nice because they hardly ever do this, even at school with the abundant space in front of the hall bathroom mirror: their schedules are too off for that, with Judy showering in the morning and Jen waiting until evening when she’s finished workouts for the day. One of the tapes Judy made last night is playing loud on Jen’s boom box, The Go-Go’s upbeat and energizing in a way that sounds like possibility, helped along by the vodka they’ve been sipping, on Jen’s insistence that they get a _good fucking head start._

Judy’s leaning close to the mirror, carefully applying mascara, when Jen goes back into her room to put on her clothes, the door between them staying open but Jen out of sight in the closet. Judy finishes and steps back, blinking a few times and checking her reflection when Jen comes back in. 

She’s got on a black suede skirt with a line of silver buttons down the center and a clingy black shirt with long sleeves and a low scooped neckline, and part her hair is pulled back and clipped, the rest falling past her shoulders in soft, loose waves that look twined with sunshine, even indoors, even at night. Judy’s seen Jen with her hair down nearly more this break than the whole last semester, and she kind of loves it.

“Wow,” Judy breathes more than says. “You look _amazing.”_

Jen’s nose scrunches and her forehead creases and she mutters a _thanks_ like it’s against her will. Judy grins; it’s always kind of fun to fluster Jen with compliments. 

“Did you still want me to do your hair?” 

“Yes, please.” Judy checks her eye makeup one more time, then turns to face Jen. She just wants a small braid, holding the front, right section of hair out of her face.

“You realize this is like the easiest possible braid to do,” Jen says even as she combs her fingers through Judy’s hair, separating it into three thin strands.

“But you’re still so much better at it,” Judy insists with a grin. “Why wouldn’t I take advantage of that expertise?” 

Jen smirks. “Same reason you wouldn’t call a five star fucking chef every time you want some mac and cheese.” 

“I would if they were already _right there.”_

Jen laughs. She’s already halfway done braiding. Beneath the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, her eyes are focused and vivid. Judy takes advantage of the closeness, carefully studying them.

“You’ve got, like...kaleidoscope eyes.” 

Jen rolls them heavenward. _“Okay,_ John Lennon.” 

Judy starts laughing. “Oh my God, I swear, I wasn’t even thinking of the song! I meant _literally,_ it’s like the color changes. Sometimes they’re more green than blue, but not always…and sometimes it’s like both at once.” Judy’s still scrutinizing them; Jen’s lips purse like they're holding in a smile. “What color does it say on your license?” 

“Green, I'm pretty sure.” 

“Yeah...tonight’s more green, I think.”

Jen’s smile gets loose. “You have a preference?” 

“Nope. Both my favorite.” 

“Done.” Jen finishes twisting the hair tie around the end of Judy’s hair and takes a step backwards to check her work. 

“Thanks.” Judy turns to the mirror to see. She smiles, pleased, then shifts her eyes to Jen’s reflection besides hers. “The red lip looks gorgeous on you, by the way.” She pouts her own lips, several shades paler, closer to pink. “I’m jealous, it doesn’t work on me.” 

“Oh, whatever, I bet it does.” Jen leans close to the mirror, rubbing carefully at the corner of her eye. “Not that you even need it.” 

Judy grins. 

They’re leaving soon, and back in her room, Jen grabs her leather jacket from where she discarded it on the bed and puts it on. Judy frowns; she hadn’t thought about a coat. She pulls her denim jacket out of her suitcase and puts it on, checking herself in the vanity mirror.

“Shit.” 

“What?” Jen looks over and makes a face. “Oh, no, that’s not gonna work.” 

Judy’s already shrugging out of it. “Yeah, don’t know why I even tried. It’s okay, I left the blue coat downstairs. I can just wear that.” 

Jen shakes her head. “No way, you’re not wearing my giant coat from, like, eighth grade to a fucking party. It literally smells like our attic.” 

“You think I’ve smelled like an _attic_ all week?” Judy asks in a concerned voice. She’s been wearing the coat every time they left the house, her denim jacket not nearly thick enough for the amount of walking they’ve been doing. 

_“No,_ I mean. You smell fine. But still.” She takes off her leather jacket and tosses it to Judy. “Switch.” 

“Wait, really?” 

Jen grabs the denim jacket from where Judy had tossed it on top of her suitcase. “Yeah, this works better with the all black.” 

Jen’s in her jacket already, but Judy still has Jen’s clutched in her hands, uncertain. “You’re sure?” 

Jen sighs impatiently. _“Yeah,_ obviously. C’mon, it’ll look good. Not that we’ll even keep them on most of the time, but sometimes people end up in Nora’s backyard with sparklers or whatever.” 

Judy smiles and puts it on. She’s always loved this jacket on Jen; it’s warm, and softer than she expected, any stiffness long worn away. Judy pulls her hair out of the neck and slips her hands into the pocket, getting a feel for it. Her fingers close around Jen’s lighter.

“Oh, hey.” She pulls it out and tosses it to Jen, teasing, “Don’t think you meant to give me this, too.” 

Jen catches it. “As long as it comes with us to the party, I don’t care who has it.” 

Hank is driving them to Nora’s house, and he’s already waiting by the door when they get downstairs, shaking his car keys a bit impatiently. 

“Don’t you kids look snazzy,” he says with a grin, the adjective eliciting a groan from Jen. His smile vanishes abruptly and he arches a critical eyebrow at his daughter. “No tights with that skirt, honey?” 

“Nope,” Jen says, like it was just a casual question. Hank shakes his head but doesn’t push it.

Jen told her Nora doesn’t live far, though they hit some holiday traffic once they turn off Jen’s residential street. Judy sits in the backseat, hugging Jen’s jacket tighter around her body. There’s a sudden, frenetic flutter of unexpected nerves in her stomach. Since starting at UNY, she’s gotten used to parties full of near strangers, has even gotten kind of _good_ at them, but a party full of Jen’s old friends, people who have known her for years and years, feels different. She’d been so preoccupied picking the _just right_ outfit that she forgot to worry about this, forgot to prepare. 

“Jen?” Judy leans forward a little from the backseat, and Jen half twists in the passenger one, giving her an expectant look. “What’s Nora like?” 

Jen appears baffled by the question. “Why?” 

“I just want to make a good impression.” 

“I don’t think you need her whole life story for that, Jude,” Jen says dryly. “Even if I _could_ cram it into the next ten minutes.” 

“I know, I don’t mean that...I just want to know what to expect.” Nora’s name has come up in a lot when Jen talks about high school, but her presence in those stories is more functional than descriptive. All Judy knows is that she’s the only one of Jen’s group of school friends who also danced with her, and they’ve known each other since they were kids. “Is she kind of like you?” 

Hank laughs from the driver’s seat. “You mean sarcastic, stubborn, forgets to return phone calls or take her laundry out of the dryer…”

Jen rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores him to answer Judy. “Not really. Nora’s just, like...I don’t know. _Nora._ She’s nice, kind of nerdy, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her. She was a decent dancer, now I think she’s majoring in teaching. Education. Whatever it’s called.”

“Always thought she was a little jealous of Jen,” Hank confides. “But most of the girls at the studio were.” 

Jen shrugs, not refuting that. “Every dancer’s jealous of _somebody.”_

Judy lightly swats Jen on the arm. “Please, who did _you_ have to be jealous of?” 

“Older girls, mostly. And a few of the girls who _only_ did ballet, when I used to care more about that.” Jen twists further in their seat to fully face Judy. “You don’t have to worry about Nora, okay? Or anyone else who’s gonna be there...you haven’t attended completely identical parties for the past five years, so you’re automatically the most interesting person there.”

Judy nods, satisfied, and gives Jen a grateful smile before settling back in her seat. 

Soon, they start weaving through residential streets, and Hank finally eases the car to a stop by the curb in front of a house with Christmas lights still lit up on the front door and snaking around the perimeter of the windows. The street looks a lot like Jen’s, townhouses built close together with tiny yards, taller than they are wide, but these are slightly bigger and newer looking. 

“Thanks for the ride, Dad,” Jen says, already going for the door handle. 

“Hang on just a minute,” Hank says. He pulls out his wallet and hands Jen some cash. “You girls call a cab to get home, got it?”

“Thanks.” Jen takes the money and puts it in her purse.

“I don’t care if someone offers you a ride, even if they say they’re good to drive. You can’t get a cab for some reason, you call home and I’ll come back for you. And if you put down a drink somewhere, don’t go picking it back up.” 

_“Okay,_ Dad,” Jen says, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. “We’ve only heard this like a hundred times.” 

Judy doesn’t correct her; she doesn’t tell them that she’s actually never heard this, not even once. No one has ever sent her out into the world with instructions to keep herself safe.

“Alright, just one more thing, and this one’s important...” Hank lets the pause linger, and Judy can practically _hear_ Jen’s eyes rolling, before he finishes, “When you get home, do _not_ wake me up.”

Jen sighs, long suffering. _“Bye,_ Dad.” 

“Thanks for the ride,” Judy adds. 

“Kiss ass,” Jen says under her breath. 

Hank grins. “See you kids next year!” 

+

Jen can’t remember the last time she was in Nora’s house. The get together over Thanksgiving break had a more limited invite list, with everyone easily fitting in Carolyn Evans’ basement. Jen had gone to a few parties last year, after graduation and through the summer, but they tended to be at Miles Crabtree’s place, since he was the only one of their crowd with a swimming pool. New Year’s Eve was really the only time Nora played host to a larger gathering, and even though Jen still spent a lot of time with Nora throughout high school – at Ms. Bryant’s studio five days a week after school, until junior year when Nora gave up on ballet and scaled down to three, plus weekends at dance competitions where they sometimes stayed overnight, sharing a hotel room – they never really hung out without a firm reason. They hadn't since middle school. 

So. The last time Jen was here was probably a year ago, exactly. Everyone had been extra drunk and sentimental, lamenting the end of their New Year’s Eve tradition like they had no clue that winter breaks exist. 

There has always been a predictability to Nora’s party, which Jen sometimes finds comforting and sometimes finds pathetic, depending on her mood and how much she’s had to drink. There is always a keg in the same living room corner, while the fridge houses a huge plastic bucket of gin, lemonade, and flat Fresca that flies directly in the face of a _no unattended drinks_ safety tip. There are usually about thirty people there: just enough to confidently call it a _party,_ but not enough to constitute a _rager_ , and the guest list hadn't changed much through all four years of high school, maybe two or three kids added or dropped each year at most. It is not the kind of party that gets broken up by cops, or a party where people puke on the lawn and pass out on top of it, though there are always a handful of attendees who crash overnight, passing out on the floor or the couches because they can’t get it together to call a taxi.

Tonight, though, Jen opens the door and, with Judy trailing close, follows the throb of music out of the foyer and into the living room, and right away it isn’t what she expected. 

The room is twice as packed as usual, and at first glance there are at least a dozen unfamiliar faces; the living room furniture has been pushed against the wall, leaving an open space for dancing – except, because Green Day is currently playing, it looks less like a dance floor and more like a mosh pit, everyone head banging and scream singing in a frenetic clump – that’s much bigger than they'd ever needed in years past. Through the wide, arched doorway the leads into a fully lit dining room, there’s a flip cup game in progress, surrounded by a crowd of loud, audibly invested spectators. 

Jen doesn’t see Nora, but she does see Scott and makes accidental eye contact. He grins at her, even risking his flip cup standing to lift a hand, gesturing for her to come over. Jen pretends to misinterpret and waves; if at all possible, she’d like to limit their contact tonight to silent acknowledgements across the room, so she quickly turns to Judy and says, “C’mon, we need drinks.” 

Judy nods, looking a little wide eyed and overwhelmed, even though she probably attended parties bigger than this one every other weekend last semester. But she’d obviously been nervous in the car, and apparently Jen _didn’t_ actually accurately prepare her for the type of crowd to expect. 

The hallway that leads to the kitchen smells like cigarette smoke, though Nora’s historically militant about making people go into the backyard before lighting up. The kitchen is mercifully empty, and Jen tries not to look too closely at the giant gin bucket when she gingerly dips a cup in, filling one up for Judy and one for herself.

“Should we have said hello to Nora?” Judy asks worriedly while Jen’s scooping liquid into the cups. 

Jen snorts. “What, you mean, like, greet the host?” She wonders if Judy had been so dedicated to _manners_ at all the artsy parties she went to last semester. “I didn’t even see her in there...it’s a bigger crowd than usual, I don’t even know half those fucking people. Here.” 

She turns to hand Judy her drink and finds her sifting through the bottles littering the counter. After a second, she turns around, triumphantly holding two shot glasses with the Eiffel Tower printed on them. “I think we should do shots.” 

Jen grins. “We should.” 

Judy scrunches her nose. “And I think we should wash these first.” 

“We _definitely_ should.” 

“Oh. My. God. _JEEEEEN!”_

Jen turns around seconds before Lydia Ramsey’s arms are around her, the passion in her voice and the tightness of the hug suggesting they are long lost siblings who have crossed multiple oceans to find each other at last. Lydia has never in her life been this happy to see Jen, so it says less about the depth of their friendship than her level of inebriation – which, given that it’s just past eight o’clock, is slightly alarming. 

Lydia pulls away, beaming. “Nora didn’t know if you were coming!” 

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure of our plans,” Jen says vaguely. “Hey, Lydia, this is my roommate at – “

Lydia doesn’t wait for her to finish; she’s turned toward Judy and noticed more important matters than her name or relationship to Jen. “Oh _shit,_ girl, are we doing shots?” 

Judy seems unclear if _girl_ is referring to her. “Um.” 

“Hold on, I’m getting Carolyn. And Nora! Wait for us, we’ll do a cheers! I mean a toast!” 

And then Lydia’s gone again. Judy looks at Jen. “Are we waiting for them?” 

“Fuck no, let’s wash these fast.” 

They stand over the sink for a hurried scrubbing of the shot glasses, fill them to the brim with vodka, and toss them back, narrowly managing to swallow it down before Lydia returns, Carolyn and Nick Whisnett in tow instead of Nora. Neither of them are as shit faced as Lydia: their greetings to Jen are excited but not deranged with delight. She actually manages to introduce Judy – they’re less surprised than Jen expected to learn she showed up with her college roommate – before Carolyn grins and says, “Sooo I was told we’re doing shots?” 

Jen and Judy refill their glasses while the others track down more, only Carolyn bothering with even a cursory rinse. Nick, who had always been the ‘wisecracks in class’ type, lifts his shot glass toward them and intones dramatically, “To 1995! She was a good ‘ol bitch...may she rest in peace!” 

Judy glances at Jen, looking like she’s not sure whether it’s okay to laugh or not. 

“So,” Jen says conversationally when they’ve emptied their glasses and quickly gulped down chasers. “Who the fuck are all these people?” 

Carolyn grins. “I know, right? Nora told everyone they could invite friends from school. I think like half of them are here with Miles.” 

Jen nods, understanding. Miles goes to Columbia, so he’s probably got plenty of classmates that are also from the city, the same as Jen. But it’s not surprising that a lot of their friends, even ones at schools out of state, would meet and befriend other New Yorkers. 

“So, Judy.” Nick smiles at her in a way that makes Jen roll her eyes. “Where are you from?”

“California,” Judy tells him. “Long Beach, mostly.” 

“It's right by L.A.,” Jen supplies for clarity. 

Carolyn looks from Judy to Jen. “Wait, really?” 

Jen belatedly realizes they’ve assumed Judy is from New York, too, and is just joining Jen for the night like the other unfamiliar guests. 

“Yep,” Judy replies cheerfully. “I’ve been staying with Jen and her parents.” 

“She went back to California at the beginning of break,” Jen says, technically the truth, hoping it will stave off invasive questions.

“You don’t sound like you’re from California,” Nick informs her with a grin.

“How do you think Californians sound?”

 _“Like,_ totally tubular, duuuude!” Nick’s fingers form a _hang ten_ sign to go with his performance. 

“So, you think she’s from _the ocean,”_ Jen says dryly.

“I don’t surf,” Judy says in an apologetic voice, her eyes glittering with amusement.

“No, Nick, it’s more….” Carolyn’s voice turns nasal. “Like, totally, as _if._..what is your _damage?”_

Jen rolls her eyes. “Okay and _you_ just think she’s from _Clueless.”_

“And a little bit _Heathers,”_ Judy adds. 

“Which isn’t even set in California.” 

Carolyn gives Judy a friendly smile. “Sorry, this is probably totally offensive.” 

“It _is_ kind of regional bullying,” Judy jokes, cutting her eyes to Jen to see if she recognizes her own line. Jen grins at her over the lip of her plastic cup. 

Quickly, Judy slips into her default conversational mode – bottomless interest – and asks Nick and Carolyn where they go to school and what they’re studying. At least tonight she’s starting with questions that require both short answers and automatic reciprocation; Judy’s just told them she’s an art major when Lydia stumbles back into the kitchen – Jen hadn’t even noticed her leave – and this time, Nora is following her. 

“Jen, hey! You came!” Nora comes over and hugs her warmly, seeming genuinely pleased to see her and not at all pissed that Jen never called her back to say if she was coming. 

“Fucking cranked it up a notch this year, huh?” Jen says. 

“For real.” Nora looks pleased with herself. “I told everyone they could invite people, but this is way more than I thought…”

Jen introduces her to Judy, and Nora _does_ look slightly taken aback when she hears Judy’s been staying with Jen. Once Nora and Judy have exchanged basic autobiographical details, Nora turns to Jen and asks, “Have you seen Scott yet?” 

“No,” Jen says, her tone dismissive. “I haven’t seen anybody outside this kitchen.”

“Shots!” Lydia loudly suggests, or possibly demands. Jen’s happy to obey.

The next hour or so goes by in an endless cycle of introductions, as people flow through the kitchen and, later, down the hallway and, later still, onto the back patio to smoke. Jen develops an unchanging, dully recited two sentence introduction for when Judy has to meet someone new, a wide range of Jen’s friends and acquaintances. Judy is patient and friendly like she always is, even though she’s asking and answering the same questions over and over. Jen tunes it all out; she saw everyone she cared to catch up with – and several she didn’t – over Thanksgiving, and doesn’t feel the need for follow up only a month later. 

She eventually steers Judy’s meet and greet back to the kitchen, having migrated enough to decide that the optimal spot is next to the gin bucket, which Nick at one point tries to christen the _Jen_ bucket, because he's not the type to let an obvious joke pass. 

Jen finds herself leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Judy in a hazy sort of fascination. It’s a little surreal, seeing Judy here, like she’s been dropped in out of context, and Jen’s thoughts flow with the alcohol to some imaginary past where she knew Judy all along. She pictures her at their lunch table in the cafeteria, in Jen’s tenth grade geometry class, at every other New Year’s Eve party – Judy beside her for the end and beginning of every year. 

Jen decides if Judy had been there, she might not have been at this party. Or at that lunch table. She’d thought it was bad at Thanksgiving, hanging out with Nora and Carolyn and the others, distractingly aware of Judy fifteen miles away in their dorm room, a far preferable option. Having Judy here doesn’t make her old friends’ company any more enjoyable; it only makes it painfully obvious how much was missing in all these flimsy, convenient friendships. 

But the gin bucket goes down easy, landing on top of the shots, and Jen loses track of how much she’s drinking. Judy, too, has been accepting refills every time Jen offers, and the two of them have become graceless, unsteady magnets, lilting against each other even mid-conversation with other people, shoulders brushing and feet nudging and hands poking swatting playing with hair. Jen catches Nora looking at them curiously, and she makes a responsible decision to slow down on the drinking, pulling Judy into the living room so they won’t be tempted with easily accessible refills, discarding her heels in a corner of the room before shouldering out a spot on the makeshift dance floor. 

It’s still more jumping and singing than dancing music – Jen’s not sure when Nora got so into pop punk alternative or whatever the fuck it is rock music – but her high school friends still end up close by and give Jen the usual shit about wanting to show off on a dance floor, even though there's little room to be graceful or impressive while bouncing in place and half shouting along to “Buddy Holly”. 

Judy doesn’t seem to know any words but the chorus, but she’s still laughing and singing herself hoarse. Her hair’s a little wild and her cheeks a little flushed and it’s so fucking easy not to pay attention to anyone else, even when Lydia comes stumbling close and nearly falls over, even when Scott appears and tries to catch Jen’s eye, even when Jen catches Nora watching them again. 

The time on the dance floor turns out to be a strenuous enough activity to nudge Jen toward a more manageable level of drunk, but it comes to a sudden and reluctant halt when Carolyn suddenly appears and grabs Jen’s arm, leading close to shout over the music. “C’mon, exclusive King’s Cup session in Mr. Gibson’s office...A List only.” 

Jen has no idea what that means, but before she can protest Carolyn turns to Judy and begins herding her in the direction of the hallway, saying something Jen can’t hear but must be a version of the same invitation. Judy looks back at Jen, questioning. Jen sighs and gives in.

“Oh, hey, you guys need drinks,” Carolyn says when they pass the kitchen. “Hurry, though, Nora’s got most everybody, we wanna go through a full deck before midnight. Or before anyone else notices we're gone.” 

Judy looks at Jen. “I don’t know if I should drink anymore.” 

“Yeah, I think I’m done for the night, too...c’mere.” She goes into the kitchen and looks through the supply of mixers, finding a few unopened cans of warm Dr. Pepper. Jen cracks the tabs and pours them into two cups. “We can play with virgin sodas, they won't know the difference.”

Judy giggles. _“Virgin_ sodas…”

“They are!” 

When they get to Nora’s dad’s home office and try the handle, the door is locked. Jen groans, exasperated, ready to just take this as an excuse to slip out of the party and go home, but then the door opens a few inches and Nick sticks his face in the crack. “Oh, good, you’re both on the list. You may enter.”

As soon as he steps aside to let them in, Jen realizes what Carolyn meant by “A List”. There are eleven people sitting in a circle on the carpet, a deck of playing cards facedown in the middle, spread out to surround an unopened can of beer. Almost everyone in the room was part of their default crowd in high school: these are the people who made up their prom group, who planned their dumb fucking Spirit Week costumes together, and were invited to Carolyn’s over Thanksgiving. The only exceptions are Judy and some guy Emily Mauney is dating whose name Jen didn’t bother committing to memory.

Nick’s reclaimed his spot in the circle, and there’s only one stretch of space left available. Jen grits her teeth and takes, sitting down next to Scott.

 _“Finally.”_ He says in an undertone, nudging his elbow against hers. “You weren’t going to say hi?” 

“I waved,” Jen says stiffly.

“Hey.” Scott leans forward to address Judy, who’s carefully folding her legs beneath her as she sits on Jen’s other side. He gives Jen his patented prom king smile and offers a hand. “I’m Scott.”

Judy looks a little surprised, probably thrown off by the polite formality this far into a party, but she smiles back and shakes his hand. “Hi! Judy.” 

Scott looks like he’s about to say something else, but Nora, bless her, calls for the game to start. 

King’s Cup is a particularly dull but inexplicably popular drinking game, without even the minimal skill or competition level offered by beer pong or flip cup: it’s solely an excuse to drink, not that anyone at this party has ever needed one, and sipping on unspiked soda only underscores its pointlessness. 

Jen starts to piss Carolyn and Emily off by deliberately losing whenever it means cutting a round short. She pretends not to be able to come up with a rhyming word for _dark_ (rhyming being the required task when a 9 card is drawn) or a brand of beer (the category Nick chooses when he draws a 10). 

The game always becomes the most lively when a Jack is selected, as this prompts a round of Never Have I Ever. Unfortunately, these also make for the longest turns, not ending until someone in the circle has lowered three fingers for three things they’ve done. Jen’s played so many times with these exact people that she knows all the standards, though there are always a few personally targeted ones to switch things up – Nick grins at Judy at one point and says, “Never have I ever lived in California.” with this teasing lilt to his voice that he probably thinks constitutes flirting. Judy smiles, a good sport, and lowers one finger, while Jen aims a scornful look across the circle. 

That same round, Emily rattles off an old faithful: “Never have I ever committed a crime.”

No less than four different people start talking over top of each other in their haste to point out that everyone in the room is committing a crime, right at this moment, and Emily hastily tacks on, _“Other_ than underage drinking. Or smoking pot. Or, like, speeding tickets.” 

“That feels like too many conditions,” Nora says. 

“Fine, okay, God, never have I ever committed a _serious_ crime.” 

“What, like, a felony?” 

“Some people think jaywalking is serious…”

“Ooh, get a load of California over there.” 

At Nick’s exclamation, Jen turns to look at Judy, the only person who’s put a finger down. For a second, Jen isn’t sure what she’s talking about, but then she remembers: Judy’s mom and her drug dealing boyfriend sent her on deliveries sometimes. That detail had nearly gotten lost in the horror story that followed.

“Wild card. _Interesting.”_ This time it’s Miles, not Nick, giving Judy that sly, teasing look. Jesus Christ. “What’d you do, Cali?” 

Judy, apparently, is under the impression that a game of King’s Cup includes some kind of unbreakable honesty contract, because she starts to explain, “Oh, um, okay, well, when I was younger, my – “

Jen cuts her off, scowling at Miles. “Fuck off, she doesn’t have to tell you. It’s not fucking truth or dare.” 

Miles holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, guess we’ll just have to imagine…”

Nick laughs. Jen wants to throttle them both.

The next time the card comes up and they start over, Nora uses her turn to say, “Never have I everrrr…” She takes a second, glancing around the circle, then smirks. “Never have I ever slept with anyone else in this room.” 

It gets an immediate reaction, laughter and groans overlapping. Emily and her nameless boyfriend put down a finger, looking much too smug about it for an established couple, and so do Lydia, Miles, and Brian Dooley. Brian and Miles look at each other and, though everyone in the room already knows this except Judy and what’s-his-ass, Miles feels the need to clarify, “Not at the same time, people!” 

Jen doesn’t look at Scott. Or Judy. Her hand hasn’t moved. 

Across the circle, Nick lets out a delighted laugh. “Ooh, that’s a fucking _burn,_ Scottie! You guys did it that many times and Jen doesn’t even _remember._ Ya gotta work on your technique, man!” 

Carolyn’s laughing, too, but she wrestles her face into a mock sympathetic expression. “Aw, leave him alone, high school was _so_ long ago, who can remember _anything_ from those olden days?” 

“So what’s the excuse for Thanksgiving break, we all know they snuck off to fuck when we were at your place.” 

Both Carolyn and Emily let out simultaneous exclamations. _”What?”_

“Whoops," Nick says innocently. "Guess everyone _didn't_ know.” 

Jen can feel Judy looking at her, so she turns and glances at Scott instead. He looks genuinely confused, and maybe a little hurt. Jen’s chest feels hot with anger, a growl shoving at the walls of her throat, but there’s no way to give into it without making this a way bigger deal than it already is. 

With great effort, she rolls her eyes and groans. “Christ, I just wasn’t paying attention.” She makes a show of lowering all three fingers at once, hand clenching to a fist. “Chill out, I lose.” 

The game moves on, and Jen finally looks at Judy. Her expression is unreadable for a second, and that in itself catches Jen off guard – most of the time, Judy’s feelings have no hiding places. But then her face untenses and she gives Jen a sympathetic look. Jen rolls her eyes again, trying for commiseration. 

There’s one more Jack card in the deck, and it comes up when there are only a few cards left on the carpet, the rest shoved under the tab of the beer can. They nearly get through the whole round, half the circle left with one finger up, when it’s Lydia’s turn. She makes a big production about how hard it is to think of anything she _hasn’t_ done, then finally lands on, “Never have I ever...hooked up with a girl.” 

All the guys in the circle put a finger down, voices immediately competing to get out their lame, predictable ribbing about the validity of these claims. Jen’s just glad the game’s almost over, when suddenly Miles calls out above the banter, _“Okay,_ California, you just get more and more interesting.” 

“She has a _name,_ ya know,” Jen says, already so on edge that it takes her a second to realize what he’s actually saying. 

She turns to look at Judy, who now has all three fingers lowered. 

Judy seems unbothered at being forced to make this revelation, but once all the attention turns to her, she starts to look a little cornered. She looks at Jen as if for help, but Jen’s still slack jawed and scrambling to catch up with this information. 

“Actually, though, um." Judy looks uncertainly at Lydia. "What are you counting as hooking up?” 

Lydia doesn’t even have to think about it. “Anything that ends in orgasm.”

“Oh, okay,” Judy nods crisply and keeps her finger down.

Nick actually applauds, the gross fucking asshole. Jen can't believe she ever thought he was sort of funny. “That’s LA, baby!”

“Shit, I’m moving to the west coast…” Brian says dreamily.

“It actually wasn’t in California,” Judy tells them. “It was at school, here.” 

It’s dizzying to hear; like a blow to the head. Out of nowhere, Jen thinks she should have kept drinking. 

“Just one time, at this party...” Judy turns to look at Jen, directing the last part of the explanation at her. “The very beginning of the semester.” 

Jen understands what she’s saying; they weren’t really friends yet, and that’s why Judy didn’t tell her. Judy told her about Andrew, that douchebag bartender, because that came later. It’s fine. And anyway, what right does Jen have to get all fucking self righteous when Judy just found out she kept what happened with Scott over Thanksgiving a secret; they were sure as hell good friends by then.

Judy's still looking at her, seeming to need a response, so Jen nods, trying to make her face convey something like _hey cool good for you._

The last three cards are played, and then Nora makes them all toast with their Solo cups in the center before she makes a face and says she should probably get back to hosting.

“I almost forgot there was a whole party out there,” Judy says to Jen.

“Yeah.” Jen’s voice sounds weird. She swallows, tries again, better this time. “You’d think that’d be impossible with the distant sounds of Weezer.” 

Still, Jen’s relieved when Judy gets Nora’s attention, just before they all pour back into the living room, and asks where the bathroom is. Jen’s still feeling weird, her skin hot, everything tight and desperate to snap; it’s probably just a consequence of getting too drunk too fast and slowly backsliding toward sobriety, but she could use a minute alone to shake off that feeling.

She tells Judy to meet her in the kitchen when she’s finished, then heads there herself. The gin bucket’s empty of everything but limp lemon slices and sticky residue, but she finds a bottle of Jim Beam with enough left to pour into the last few inches of her Dr. Pepper. While she gulps it down, Jen’s eyes accidentally land on the microwaves clock. Even though this particular party starts unusually early in the evening, Jen’s startled to see it’s only 11:13; she’d forgot all about the climactic midnight moment, and would have guessed they’ve been here half the fucking night.

She doesn’t give much of a shit about the New Year’s countdown, and decides that when Judy gets back she’ll suggest going home. It won’t even be a _suggestion,_ really, since she knows for a fact Judy will agree; Jen checks the time again, then grabs the phone off the wall and dials a long memorized number to order a cab. 

When she hangs up the phone, she hears footsteps behind her on the kitchen tile. Jen turns, expecting Judy, and sees Scott instead.

Fucking _fantastic._

“Hey.” He’s using one hand to tousle his own hair. It's a familiar gesture; Jen’s pretty sure he’s trained himself to do that habitually, thinking it makes him look roguish and charming. He tips a lopsided smile in her direction. “Conducting some last minute business? Before next year?” 

She stares at him blankly. “What?” 

“Cause you were on the phone?” 

“Oh.” She doesn’t smile, or offer an explanation. 

“So…” He walks a little closer, leaning his elbows on the kitchen island and regarding her. “What was that back there? Playing hard to get or something?” 

Jen laughs, sharp but genuine. _“Yeah._ Cause that’s how this usually plays out.” 

He grins the prom king grin again. Scott had been the best looking guy in their grade, a universally agreed upon truth, and Jen had liked the mere fact of that more than anything else. He's an interesting version of his own type, the golden boy perfection just _slightly_ off kilter, like someone had smudged a few details to avoid a bland cliche. Eyebrows a little too thick, two bottom teeth just barely crooked. A jock, of course, but captain of the soccer team instead of football or basketball. Weirdly good at math, to the point that he genuinely enjoyed Honors Calculus. 

And, actually, annoyingly, a good guy. It had never been _his_ choice to hook up with no strings attached. 

“You know…” He rounds the island, coming closer, those too thick eyebrows arching high on his forehead. “I _did_ drive here tonight.”

Jen’s cup is empty; she sets it on the counter and crosses her arms, pretending not to know what he means. “Well, that was fucking stupid.” 

He frowns. “Huh?” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t just get through that whole King’s Cup game _sober.”_

“Oh, shit, I’m not driving _home._ I’ll just come back for the car tomorrow. I just meant, ya know. What happened at Carolyn’s…” 

His eyebrows are practically sentient now, lifting and furrowing like they’re trying to spell out his point. This is another irritating thing about Scott; he’s got this bizarre gentlemanly habit of not talking outright about sex.

“We could. If you wanted. That’s all I’m saying.” 

It’s tempting to wait this out, see how long she can convince him she doesn't realize he’s referring to their quick and disappointing sex in the backseat of his dad's car, but Jen is starting to get distracted by how long Judy’s been gone.

“I’m good,” she says, cool and simple. 

“You know, I didn’t mean for the Thanksgiving break thing to be so, like...in and out.” 

“That’s kinda how sex works, dude.” 

Scott laughs; he’s always thought she’s funny. “You know what I mean. I tried calling. Not on Thanksgiving, cause we were at my Nana’s, but after...your dad said you were already back at school. And he wouldn’t give me the number for your dorm.”

“Yeah, I told him not to.” 

This, finally, makes an impact. The set of Scott’s jaw tenses, and he straightens up from the kitchen island, posture stiff. “Okay, then. Message received.” 

Jen’s looking past his shoulder, trying to see into the living room. Where the _hell_ is Judy? Their cab could be here any second. 

“What, are you looking for your date?” Scott asks, more frustration than derision in his voice, but still Jen’s eyes snap back to him, her face twisting scornfully. 

“Oh, fuck you,” she bites out, shoving past him and out of the kitchen, already scanning the crowd for Judy.

+

Two girls Judy hasn’t been introduced to tonight go into the downstairs bathroom right before her, and when they still haven’t emerged after eight minutes, Judy spends another three inwardly debating and bouncing on the balls of her feet before she decides to go upstairs and find another bathroom. Nora had only told her about the downstairs one, but Judy’s decides trespassing on an off limits floor is still preferable guest behavior than the alternative. 

The only upstairs bathroom is attached to a bedroom that must be Nora’s. Judy hurries through it too fast to pay much attention, but when she’s done, she crosses the room with the lights still off, _really_ not intending to be nosy, but her gaze accidentally lands on a huge, photo covered bulletin board on the wall that's _right_ by the door. Already she sees at least three photos of Jen, and Judy can’t resist slowing to a stop and flicking the light switch so she can look.

Right away, she realizes there are way more than _three_ photos featuring Jen. She’s in almost every group shot, some of them only slightly different versions of the Polaroids stuck on Jen’s vanity mirror: Judy recognizes the prom outfits, and the bright, sun soaked shot taken in what Judy’s pretty sure is Prospect Park. 

But Nora has so many more photos than Jen’s minimal display: caps and gowns at graduation, bathing suits and sunglasses in somebody’s pool, dresses and lipstick at some other year’s New Year’s party. Then there are the images that seem to be from ordinary days at ordinary places, but someone thought to take a photograph anyway, wanting to remember. 

Judy recognizes most everyone in those group shots now; always Jen and Nora and Carolyn and Lydia, sometimes Emily or Meredith. When the boys are in the picture, Jen’s usually next to Scott. Judy's not surprised about the two of them; she'd seen him in Jen's own photographs, something in the way he looked at her recognizable. She's a little surprised they were together on Thanksgiving, but she doesn't have a right to upset with Jen for not telling her: that was before they made their deal not to keep things from each other. 

One of the photos shows the entire group of them, posed in front of a row of yellow lockers, dressed as the cast of _Grease_. Jen's in center, her hair teased into big curls, leather jacket over an all black outfit, slightly less scandalous than the movie version. Nora's on one side of her, playing Frenchie in a Pink Ladies jacket, and Scott on the other doing his best Danny Zuko smirk. Judy frowns slightly at the photo; since the _Cats_ debacle, she's gotten more familiar with the particulars of Jen's taste in musicals. She wouldn't have thought _Grease_ would have gotten her approval.

There are a smattering of photos of just Jen and Nora, mostly in sparkling costumes, on stages or in studios, but a couple aren’t dance related. One of them, Jen and Nora are just kids, maybe eight or nine, laying on pale purple carpet with their heads touching, temple to crown, camera held aloft while they make goofball faces at it. Judy can’t stop looking at it; she actually reaches her fingers out to touch the image, like it’s one of the chalk drawings from _Mary Poppins_ and Judy might be able to hop through the photograph and land back in time, and her chest heaves with a surge of longing so strong it feels like it might split open.

For the past week, Judy’s poured eagerly over walls and photo albums and yearbooks at Jen’s house like a researcher specializing in the most important subject. She has seen Jen at this age and younger, so much photographic evidence of all the time Judy missed.

None of it has made her feel like this. Because these aren’t Jen’s memories, or even her parents' – they’re all Nora’s. And she just gets to have Jen in them.

Someone pushes the bedroom door the rest of the way open, and Judy jumps, instant guilt seizing her as Nora peers into the room.

“Oh, hey.” 

“I’m sorry!” Judy says, her voice spilling out in a frantic rush that _really_ reminds she’s still kind of drunk. “God, _sorry,_ I, I was waiting for the downstairs bathroom but I think someone might have been feeling sick or something in there? So I came up here to look for another bathroom and I just saw the photos, and, just. Sorry.”

“It’s cool.” Nora’s mouth lifts into a small smile. “I was mostly just worried people might be hooking up in here. I was gonna send them to my parent’s room.” 

Instead of telling Judy she should still probably get out of her bedroom, Nora comes further in herself, joining Judy beside the board, letting her eyes move slowly across it like she’s seeing it for the first time, too. 

Right away, Judy’s fidgeting under the quiet. Nora’s been nothing but sweet and welcoming to her, but still Judy’s felt nervous around her all night, jittery and weird and talking too much. It’s so much worse after seeing the photos that Judy finally understands what she’s afraid of, irrational though it is: she’s waiting for Nora to step between her and Jen, to smile apologetically and say, _Sorry, but she found me first._

Desperate for something to say, Judy points at the prom photo. “I saw this picture in Jen’s room. Well, pretty much the same photo. It was a different pose, I think.” 

“Really? Kinda surprised Jen has photos up.” 

“She does...only a couple, though,” Judy winces as soon as she says it, afraid she’s making Jen sound like a bad friend. “Probably because she doesn’t have a bulletin board or anything. She didn’t even put anything up in our dorm room until after Thanksgiving.” Nora’s looking at her, but she doesn’t immediately respond. Judy points at the park photo. “There’s one of these, too.”

Nora hums thoughtfully in response. After a second, she asks, “Can I ask...how long have you been staying at Jen’s?” 

“The day before Christmas Eve,” Judy says, then immediately corrects herself. “No, sorry, the day _before_ the day before. The 22nd.” Nora looks visibly taken aback at the answer, so Judy offers a vague explanation, “There was a mix up, with my plans in California, so I had to fly back.” 

“Sorry, I just...I didn’t know you spent Christmas there. Wow.” 

“Yeah, it was really great of her parents to let me.” 

Nora’s eyes dim a little, turning soft and serious. “How’s her mom doing?” 

Judy’s chest pangs, an odd collision of guilt and envy; obviously, Nora’s known Jen’s parents for a long time. She even knew Jen when Maggie first got sick.

“She’s seemed to be doing pretty good,” Judy says earnestly. “Especially over Christmas, you know, Jen’s aunt and cousins and everyone were visiting. We went with her to the chemotherapy appointment on Friday, so she hasn’t been up for as much the last few days but – "

“Wait, sorry...you went to the hospital with her?” 

“Mmmhmm.”

“And Jen went?” 

“Yeah, Hank was at work and everything, so we went and kept her company.”

Nora just stares at Judy for a moment, not bothering to hide her shock. “God, that’s...damn.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Jen _never_ talked to us about her mom. It was like. We all knew we weren’t even supposed to ask.”

It is an awful, _horrible_ thing to be pleased about. Judy presses her lips firmly together and bites down, _hard,_ on her tongue for good measure, because what kind of monster would _smile_ at that? At finding out that Jen had no one she could really talk to about her mom for that many years. 

But already pride is blooming in Judy’s chest like an ugly, thorned flower.

Nora suddenly smiles at her, so open and sincere that Judy feels even worse. “I’m really glad you and Jen hit it off so well. I mean, I can tell you’re super close already, and Jen’s _never_ like that with people.” 

Judy’s terrible, traitorous smile sneaks out against her will. 

“And it’s honestly a relief,” Nora continues. “She was so pissed about Juilliard I was kinda worried she’d force herself to hate UNY all four years out of spite.” 

Judy’s smile fades, giving way to confusion. “Jen auditioned for Juilliard?”

Another, more shocking thought: Jen was _rejected_ from Juilliard? 

“Oh yeah, she'd wanted to go there since, like, third grade or something. Ms. Bryant _tried_ to prepare her the last few years, telling her she wasn’t at the ballet level they’d want, but you know how she is. Didn't believe it.” 

For the first time tonight, Judy sees what Hank meant about Nora being jealous of Jen; it’s barely there, just a tiny twinge of smugness in the way she talks about her rejection. 

“But anyway,” Nora says. “It seems like – “

She doesn’t finish the sentence, both of them jumping slightly at a loud crash that sounds like it’s directly below the bedroom.

 _“Shit,”_ Nora says. “That better not have been in the dining room…” 

She rushes out of the room, and though she didn’t tell Judy to leave, Judy casts one last look at that photo of little kid Jen before following Nora out of the room and heading down to the kitchen to meet Jen. She doesn’t get that far, nearly colliding with her at the foot of the stairs; Jen’s got her own shoes, Judy’s jacket, and both their purses bundled in her arms, and relief breaks over her expression when she sees Judy. “Thank _fuck,_ where were you? C’mon, I told the cab to wait for us outside.”

“Oh. Okay. We’re going now?” 

Jen stops moving for a second, looking like she just remembered this hasn’t actually been discussed. “Yeah, is that okay? I’m kind of over all this.” 

“Totally,” Judy says, taking her things from Jen. “I just didn’t know, since it’s not midnight...but I’m fine to leave, we can watch the ball drop at your house.” 

“Yeah, maybe. We’ll be cutting it pretty fucking close.” 

“Just as long as there’s still a countdown.” 

“It might be in the middle of the street, but sure.” 

Judy smiles the slightest bit. “I’m not picky.” 

+

They’re quiet in the back of the cab driving away from Nora’s house. Quiet and cold; the driver has his window down, a cigarette hanging listless in his mouth until they come to a stop light and he can take a puff. He has the radio tuned to coverage in Times Square, The Goo Goo Dolls’ live set coming through the speakers in scratchy static. 

Jen feels caught between _drunk_ and _hungover,_ her whole body spinning around the worst parts of both: too many wild, overblown emotions still rioting in her chest, but they’re already draped over with embarrassment, as if she’s just clear sighted enough to glimpse a fraction of how stupid she’s going to feel tomorrow. 

As always, anger is the easiest feeling for Jen to grab onto. She aims a glare out the window and gets herself good and pissed over the fact that they even went to the fucking party in the first place. She and Judy could have stayed home, sipping smuggled champagne and ragging on New Year’s Rockin’ Eve and all the morons who stand in the cold street all day just to watch a glorified disco ball slowly slide down a flagpole. 

If her mom wasn’t so fucking obsessed with Jen having a lively social life. If Judy wasn’t so goddamn agreeable to _any_ suggestion. If her dad hadn’t fucking driven them there.

If the fucking cab driver would quit _stomping_ on the gas and brakes so that the taxi _lurches_ into every start and stop, taking Jen’s stomach with it.

Judy keeps leaning forward in her seat to monitor the clock on the car radio, like the moment it hits midnight is something that actually matters. Jen is breathing slowly through her nose, trying to combat the sick, suffocating feeling of the backseat, but the next time Judy leans forward to check, Jen mutters, “What time is it now?” 

“11:53.”

Jen turns her head and squints out the window to see where they are. “Hey, sorry, can you pull over?” 

“Here?” 

“Yeah, this is fine. Thanks.” Jen pays him too much because she doesn’t want to wait for change, then throws open the car door like she’s making an escape. Judy gives her a quizzical look but follows without question – of _course_ she does.

The cab speeds off, leaving them on the sidewalk, and Judy looks around, like she’s double checking that this isn’t Jen’s street, before asking, “What are we doing?” 

“Figured you didn’t want your countdown in the back of a cab that smells like piss and nicotine.” Jen grimaces. “Plus I didn’t want my first act of 1996 to be adding _vomit_ to that lovely combination.” 

Judy turns to look at her, concerned. “You feel like you’re gonna be sick?” 

“I think I’m okay now that we’re out of the car.” She starts walking down the sidewalk, inclining her head for Judy to follow. “C’mon, it’s like a ten minute walk to get home. Fifteen, tops.” 

Judy falls into step beside her, and they start heading down a residential street with more apartment buildings than townhouses. Neither of them are wearing a watch, so there won’t be a countdown, but the year will still change sometime between here and home. 

Jen’s heard people say that smoking helps nausea, so she pulls out her pack of cigarettes and lights up. After the first deep drag, she wordlessly holds it out for Judy. 

They fell into this habit the last month of last semester, sharing cigarettes instead of merely tossing a lighter back and forth. It happened without discussion or agreement; only once have they ever even acknowledged it, maybe the fourth or fifth time Jen plucked a cigarette out of Judy’s mouth without asking or passed over one of her own without being asked: Judy had grinned, already familiar with the gesture, and said, “Only half as bad for us this way, right?” 

The calm, steady swapping of the cigarette is their only contact for a block, the quiet from the cab having followed them down the street. Jen’s anger is starting to recede, the harsh bite of winter air sobering her up enough to let in a cold gust of clarity. Her mother didn’t _force_ Jen to go to the party, and Judy _definitely_ didn’t. It hadn't even been that bad, most of the night, even if she and Judy could have easily improved on it by themselves. 

It’s Jen’s own fault, just about everything that went wrong in Never Have I Ever – well, save for Nick and Miles acting like everything Judy said was for the benefit of them and their peanut sized dicks. 

“Hey…” Jen stops walking and reaches forward, tugging on the sleeve of Judy’s (really, _Jen’s)_ jacket. “Listen.”

They’re in front of an apartment building, a small glimpse of a party just visible on the second floor, framed through a set of double doors that lead onto a tiny patio. One of the doors must be slid open, because they can hear the chorus of chanting voices floating down over top of them.

_“ELEVEN...TEN….NINE...EIGHT…”_

“You wanted a countdown,” Jen tells Judy softly.

Her face splits into a grin, tipping her head up toward the party, counting along under her breath. Jen joins in at the very end.

_“THREE...TWO...ONE...HAPPY NEW YEAR!”_

A swell of applause and whoops burst out from the apartment. Jen glances around the street; there are so many lights on in so many windows, sometimes with the faint stirrings of other celebrations. They can hear fireworks somewhere but can’t see them. 

Judy and Jen look at each other at the same time, standing in place on the sidewalk, probably surrounded by a few dozen parties on either side of the street while they end one year and start another with only each other – which is all Jen really wanted this whole time.

Judy smiles at her, lips closed and a little crooked. “Happy New Year, Jen.”

“You, too,” Jen says, then tries for a smirk, tacking on a deadpan, “I think my resolution’s going to be to never play Never Have I Ever again. Like, _never_ fucking ever.” 

Judy’s smile opens up completely, and she starts to laugh – tumbling, fountainous laughter, and relief hits Jen’s throat so sharp and sudden that she’s afraid she might cry. 

Everything’s okay, then, just like that. 

By the next block over, Jen feels drunk again, but in a good way. Judy’s singing the absolutely incorrect words to “Auld Lang Syne” and Jen is complaining loudly about her fucking feet fucking hurting.

“Okay, I can’t do it, hold on…” Jen stops walking and bends one leg at a time, pulling off her heels. 

Judy stares at her in abject horror. “Jen. You cannot go _barefoot!_ You’re not even wearing socks.” 

"Well, _yeah,_ cause they'd have looked fuckin’ weird with this outfit.” 

“Or _tights,”_ Judy says sternly. “It’s freezing out!”

“Judy. Jude. _You_ are from California. And that’s not your fault!”

“Oh my God.”

“But you don’t understand real cold."

“You shouldn’t be barefoot on the _street_ anyway, even if it was July.” 

“Plus, I’m a dancer. My feet are very tough.” 

“Counterpoint...your feet are very _important.”_

“That is true. But _counter_ counter point...the heels would do _more_ fucking damage.” 

“I’m not going anywhere if you’re barefoot.” 

_“I’m_ not going anywhere in heels. Also I physically can’t.” 

“But I thought your feet were so _tough.”_

“Do _not_ try to turn my own words against me.” 

They stare at each other, stubborn expressions defending hard against threatening laughter, waiting to see who will break first. 

Judy finally gives her a lofty shrug.

“So, I guess we just live here now.” 

“Guess so.” 

“Fine with me.”

 _“Great_ with me. I love it here.” 

“So do I.” Judy pauses, then says, “Wait, actually…”

 _“Wow,_ Jude, giving up our dream home that fast?” 

Judy turns around, hunching over slightly and looking at Jen over her shoulder. “Hop on.”

Jen blinks at her. “Hop on _what?”_

“My back!”

Jen’s poker face dissolves instantaneously, laughter thoroughly taking her over.

Judy glares at her. “I’m serious!” 

_“Judy._ I’m not going to _jump_ onto your back.”

“I didn’t mean _literally_ hop on. You can sort of climb.”

“Uh, the starting method isn’t really my issue.” 

“Then what _is_ your issue?” 

“My full body weight on your back is the fucking issue! Judy. You would _topple.”_

“You’re not that heavy!” 

“But you’re _tiny.”_

“I’m, like, barely shorter than you.” 

“And weak.” 

“That's a little hurtful.” 

_“I_ could carry _you,_ though. _”_

“Oh, could you?”

“Of course. _Easily.”_

“So I can’t carry you _at all,_ yet you could carry me _easily?”_

“Exactly. I’m a dancer. I have a very strong core.”

“Hold on, I’m sorry, just to clarify...are you a dancer?”

“Fuck yeah I am. With a strong core. And tough fuckin’ feet.” 

“Your _tough fuckin’ feet_ are the ones who can’t handle a few more blocks in heels.”

“It’s actually more than a few more blocks. I was maybe being optimistic.”

_“Jen.”_

“I have an idea. Give me your shoes. We can swap.”

Judy crosses her arms, giving Jen an exasperated look.

“I feel like that would be admitting some weird kind of defeat.” 

“By the way...look at what I’m wearing.” Jen gestures at her tight skirt. “Even if you _were_ strong enough – “

“I really think I maybe am.”

“– my legs can’t even spread enough to go around you.” 

Predictably, Judy’s grin tilts salaciously. “You sure about that?” 

“You can hike the dress up.”

Judy tilts her head, grin at Jen from beneath her lashes. “If you want.”

“Oh my God, I have to do everything…” Jen actually bends down on one knee on the sidewalk and starts undoing the laces of Judy’s Doc Martens.

Judy’s laughter cascades down on her, and she starts shaking her ankle out of Jen’s grasp. “Okay, okay, _stop,_ I can untie my own shoes.” 

She does, and passes Jen the shoes with much sighing and head shaking. Jen grins up at her while she’s tying the laces. “Lot of clothes swapping tonight.” 

“Well, we do already share a _Cats_ shirt.”

“Don’t remind me. Okay.” Jen partially stands up and hunches over, her voice mocking: _“Hop on.”_

Judy snakes her arms around Jen’s neck and mutters, “I hate you,” into her hair, but Jen can hear the grin on her voice.

Jen pushes up to her full weight, trying to wobble as little as possible, both to keep Judy from falling and to prove herself right about the strong core.

Judy’s legs wrap around her waist, and Jen hooks her hands under her knees, finding her equilibrium. She’s instantly warm. Breathing in frigid, January air doesn’t hurt as badly with Judy’s arms serving as a snug, familiar scarf. It takes Jen a few steps to feel confident, but her strides quickly settle into a steady rhythm. 

Judy maintains perfect piggyback posture for the first few blocks, keeping her back stiff and head up, but eventually Jen feels her muscles relax, tension easing, and new warmth comes with the press of Judy’s chin on Jen’s shoulder.

“Is it still pretty far?” Judy asks, the words tickling Jen’s ear.

“Not so bad.” 

“You really don’t have to do this the whole way. I suggested it based on false information about how close we were.” 

“Which _I_ gave you.”

“Still.” 

“I’m totally fine.”

“I _know,”_ Judy says, warm and teasing. It’s maybe a weird, drunken thought, but this is the closest Jen’s ever been to her voice. “You’re a _dancer_. With a very strong core.” 

“Mmmhmm. Plus, I have a choice between this and walking in heels.”

“And you really choose piggybacking me through the streets of Brooklyn?”

“I really do.” 

“You’re such a show off.” 

The smile in Judy’s voice is contagious, even without Jen seeing it.

They’re quiet for another block. 

“Jen?” 

It’s her serious voice, and right away Jen’s chest constricts. 

“Yeah?”

She braces herself for Judy to ask about Scott, ask _why_ she kept it such a secret, and Jen’s maybe glad she and Judy can’t make eye contact right now.

Then Judy says the last thing she expects.

“I didn’t know you wanted to go to Juilliard.”

Jen’s so caught off guard, it takes her a moment to recover enough to answer. “Oh, uh. Yeah, I mean, I auditioned, and...who told you that?”

“Nora and I were talking. Just for a second.” 

Jen’s quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. Truthfully, she hasn’t thought about Juilliard for months, a realization that staggers her. 

“They’re the number one dance program. UNY’s number two, so...that’s just how I ranked my choices.”

“They’re insane for not taking you,” Judy tells her. By the concrete certainty in her voice, you’d think Judy Hale was the most widely recognized global authority on dance and dancers. Jen smiles.

“It’s really okay. It kinda worked out for the best.” Jen pauses for a second, marveling at how much she means that. A whole summer of raging for nothing. She hesitates, then adds, soft and casual, “Juilliard doesn’t even have an art program.” 

Judy doesn’t answer, just tucks herself in even closer, nestling her face in Jen’s hair. If they could stay just like this, Jen decides she would happily carry Judy across the entire fucking city.

+

The week after New Year’s Eve isn’t that different than the week before. She and Jen start each day in the basement until their stomachs growl for a late breakfast. Hank goes back to work Tuesday, so Maggie spends most of her time downstairs, watching daytime TV and chatting on the phone with Susan and other friends who routinely check in. Judy sits on the couch with her for a couple hours every day, eating up the melodramatic web of _Days Of Our Lives_ plotlines while she practices her knitting. Maggie critiques her when necessary, and compliments her when it’s not. Jen joins them sometimes, mostly to mock the soap opera from the warmth of Hank’s recliner while Yogi stares, jealous, from the living room rug.

Jen’s always antsy by mid-afternoon. Most days, they go out for at least a little while, leisurely traipsing between the best cafes and shops Brooklyn has to offer. Judy insists that they take on the responsibility of picking up dinner for everyone on their way home each night. The task only falls to Hank once, on Friday, when their train from Williamsburg ran late.

It’s decided at the dinner table that night that it would be best for them to go back to school the next day. Jen wants a full day in the dorms to rest and “settle in” before the semester starts. Hank wants to avoid Sunday traffic. Judy would rather walk back to campus alone in below zero weather conditions than admit that she was hoping to push back their departure until the very last minute.

When they’ve finished eating, Judy stands up immediately after Maggie to start helping her clear the dishes and take out containers from the table. Jen scoots back, her chair scratching against the hardwood floor.

“I’ll get our clothes from the dryer,” she says, side stepping around Hank.

Judy mutters a thanks, but it’s drowned out by Hank’s laughter.

“That your New Year’s resolution, kiddo?”

“Ha ha,” Jen snarks before disappearing down the stairs.

Judy carries the stack of four dirty plates to the sink and starts to rinse. Maggie steps up to the counter beside her, presses her hand to the center of Judy’s back and rubs softly for just a moment. Judy misses her hand when she pulls away.

“I bet you girls will miss the free laundry once you’re back at school,” Maggie teases.

“Definitely,” Judy agrees.

“I told Jen she could bring her clothes here whenever she wants. She hasn’t taken me up on the offer, so I’m extending it to you. Anytime you’re running low on quarters or want a warm, non-homemade meal, you take the train right on over, okay?”

Judy’s hands go still, save for the slightest tremble, still holding a plate in her hand. Carefully, Judy sets it down in the sink and then looks over at Maggie. Her throat is too narrow to get any words out, but Judy meets her gaze and Maggie doesn’t look away. She’s still smiling, but her eyes have turned serious; they’re unshakable, the blue green kaleidoscope. Like Jen’s, but gentler – like Jen’s, in Judy’s favorite moments, the ones that make her feel _chosen._

It’s hard not to trust them. Judy’s almost certain she does.

Later that night, she and Jen move around Jen’s bedroom packing their stuff. Judy has to borrow a small duffle bag from Jen, to fit in her Christmas presents and mixtapes and the knitting book and materials Maggie gave her. Judy finally gets her suitcase zipped, everything there except for what she'll need tonight and tomorrow morning, and she finally asks Jen about her stocking. 

It’s a little embarrassing, admitting how badly she wants to keep it, take it back to her college dorm and maybe even hang it up all year round, but Judy's been wondering about it all day. She's afraid that someone tossed it once the day had passed, or if it got accidentally thrown in with Susan’s abundant holiday decorations, meaning it's far away in Maine.

“Oh, we boxed it up with the rest of our Christmas stuff,” Jen answers right away from the carpet, where she’s trying to stuff as many leotards as possible into her dance bag. “Those bins are up in the attic for most of the year.” 

“Oh,” Judy says in a small voice. “Okay.”

She _can’t_ ask them to go digging through the attic for a stocking. At least she knows it’s safe, where Jen can get it for her if Judy's ever desperate enough to ask.

But then Jen looks over at her again and adds, “That way if we need it next year, it’ll still be there.”

The offer startles Judy; she hadn’t even considered that possibility. Her whole life, homes and families and schools were always changing, and it's made her short sighted. Things get blurry only a few months into the future; even with college, the four year promise that came with her acceptance letter, Judy’s still not in the habit of looking too far ahead. 

But Jen can see all the way ahead to a year from now, and she still sees Judy there. Being welcomed back in, the two of them just as close as they are now. Like it's something to count on.

Judy has to work hard not to cry when they leave the next day, especially when she hugs Maggie in the foyer and thanks her a few more times. But Judy knows she is leaving with promises and plans tucked in her pocket: not just Maggie’s offer at the sink last night, but her insistence on letting them take Judy for a birthday dinner close to the day, or Hank declaring they’ll have a date night at Portofino during one of Judy's dinner shifts. 

Leaving still hurts like it always does, but Judy has missed the dorm room, too, the cozy space that belongs solely, and equally, to her and Jen. Jen’s thrilled to go back, and it reminds Judy why she should be, too. She knows how lucky she is, having two places at once that she loves enough to miss. That’s hardly ever happened before. 

Another lucky thing that's hardly ever happened: leaving a place and knowing for certain she gets to come back. 

+

After nearly a month of abandonment, Franklin Hall Room 709 has a stale, mothball smell. Jen throws the window open, letting fresh air in, while Judy lights a stick of incense – apparently, Autumnal Twilight is out for the winter, with Morning Pine selected as a more seasonally appropriate scent.

Jen looks out the window and exhales when she sees that the loading zone her father had illegally parked in was now empty. He insisted on dropping her and Judy off at the front of the building because “muggings go up after the holidays,” and he wasn’t going to allow them to walk down a city block carrying a new television.

When they parked, Jen practically leapt from the car. The ride had been tighter than necessary with her, Judy, and their bags crammed into the backseat because Yogi _had_ to ride shotgun. 

Call Jen crazy, but the dog did look sad when Judy scratched his ears and said goodbye through the rolled down window.

After he carried the TV box to the dorm building’s door, Jen planned to part ways with her dad in their usual style: a one-armed shoulder squeeze and a promise to call soon, but when Judy stood up on her tiptoes to give him a proper hug, Jen felt compelled to do the same.

Her dad seemed more surprised by her hug than Judy’s.

He leaned against the side of the car, watching until they were safely inside. Judy waved at him through the glass door. That gesture, Jen didn’t mimic.

It takes less than five minutes to get the TV out of its box and set up on top of Jen’s dresser. The single cable hook up is foolproof, and by the time Judy’s returned from carrying the empty box downstairs, Jen’s sitting on her bed channel surfing.

“Aren’t you going to unpack?” Judy asks, unzipping her heaviest bag.

Jen’s done more chores in the last three weeks than she’s done all semester, so she shakes her head.

“I’ll do it later.”

Judy nods, considers her bags for a moment, and steps away. Apparently, Jen’s made the decision for both of them.

“What are we watching?” Judy asks, lowering onto the bed next to Jen. She mirrors Jen’s posture, slouching lazily against the pillows.

“It’s too early in the day. It’s all cartoons and sports shit.”

“Some cartoons are funny,” Judy contests. 

Jen sighs and flips to the Disney channel where _DuckTales_ is playing.

“Aw, my foster brother used to love this show,” Judy says, lip turned down in a slight pout.

The information catches Jen by surprise, but only because of Judy’s casual delivery. Memories like that don’t have to be shared under the cover of night, in the safe cocoon of a childhood bedroom – they can be stories instead of secrets.

Jen puts down the remote, letting the cartoon continue. “What was his name?”

“Marcus. He was nine. Dewey was his favorite duck because he was blue,” Judy recalls, tugging the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands.

Jen glances at the open window. It’s been open less than twenty minutes, but it’s so cold outside that the room is already feeling like an ice box.

“Close it if you’re too cold,” Jen says, nodding towards the window. “Morning Pine’s doing it’s job. It doesn’t smell like a shoebox in here anymore.”

Judy shakes her head and curls her knees up higher, pressing them firmly into Jen’s thigh.

“It’s okay. I like it. It feels all crisp and energizing,” she says, reaching for the folded blanket at the end of Jen’s bed. She shakes it out and drapes it over both their laps.

“This...” Jen pats her hand on her fleece-covered lap. “...is like, the opposite of energizing.” 

It’s downright cozy, but Jen can’t bring herself to say the word out loud. Too grandma-y.

“It makes me want to sleep,” Jen tacks on.

“You can sleep. Are you tired?” Judy asks, eyes wide with concern, as if they hadn’t woken up at the exact same time.

“A little. Kinda hungry, too, but all we have is leftover Christmas candy.”

They made a point to clear their fridge and snack pile before the Holiday break. The last thing they wanted to start the second semester with was a mice problem.

Judy sits up. “I can run to the bodega really quick. We need to restock, anyway.”

“You don’t have to go now,” Jen says, tugging the back of Judy’s sweater so she can’t stand up. “At least stay until the episode’s over.”

Judy smiles, reclining back into ‘cozy’ position. She tucks the edges of the blanket tighter around her legs and fully relaxes against Jen’s side. Her cheek presses against Jen’s shoulder, confirming what Jen felt on New Year’s Eve: she likes Judy this close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes! 
> 
> Waterfalls - TLC  
> No Rain - Blind Melon*  
> Give Me One Reason - Tracy Chapman  
> A Case of You - Joni Mitchell  
> Our Lips Are Sealed - The Go-Go's  
> Basket Case - Green Day  
> Buddy Holly - Weezer  
> Naked - The Goo Goo Dolls


	5. little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so obviously instead of the usual "sorry this is so long" apology, we've gotta start with a much bigger apology for how long this update took. There was a sudden surge in my workload right after the last chapter published, which got this one off to a delayed start. Thanks so, so much for sticking around and being so patient...we're very hopeful the next few updates will have a much faster turn around.

The first day of the second semester, Jen’s morning alarm reflexes prove to be intact. She’s awake and silencing it in less than five seconds, but Judy still stirs awake when Jen’s pulling leg warmers on over her tights. 

“Morning.”

“Hey, sorry...was trying to be quiet.” Jen steps into her boots and grabs her coat, left draped on her desk chair with her gloves already waiting in the pockets. 

Judy smiles at her, eyes only half open. “Kinda sad I can’t go with you anymore.” 

Jen hoists her dance bag over her shoulder and grins. “I _know_ _,_ and you were making such progress on your jumps.” She pokes the toe of her boot at Judy’s comforter, her best guess to where a knee is. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you at lunch.” 

“12:30,” Judy murmurs. 

She doesn’t say it like a question, but Jen still hums an affirmation before slipping out the door.

Jen’s morning schedule hasn’t changed this semester, every day of the week still starting out with three and a half hours in the studio for mat-work, ballet, and contemporary. Judy’s whole schedule is different, though, her days more crowded thanks to two different studio art classes – photography and painting – that last twice as long as typical academic classes. Still, the gaps in their schedules line up so Jen can meet Judy for lunch on campus Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, just before Judy’s photography class and Jen’s dreaded gen ed for the semester, Weather and Climate, which seemed like the most painless way to get her required science credit even if it is mind numbingly dull.

That first Monday back, Audrey and Matthew apparently assume their old lunch routine will remain, like their morning schedule, unchanged. When Jen mentions she’s meeting Judy at the dining hall, Matthew just says, “Oh, yay, I love her!” So apparently, it will be the four of them eating lunch on Mondays and Wednesdays, with Preston Connelly – now Matthew’s boyfriend, a label he clarifies no less than thirty times during lunch on Monday – joining them on Fridays. 

Judy’s work schedule stays the same, so the Monday and Wednesday lunches are an especially nice addition this semester, since her dinner shifts usually means Jen barely sees Judy after classes. But the biggest shake up to Jen’s first semester routine comes courtesy of the television set that now resides on her dresser. 

It makes it temptingly simple to extend the routine they’d cultivated over winter break, so on the nights Judy isn’t working, Jen’s self appointed bed time nudges later and later in favor of ending the day watching sitcom reruns or MTV’s late night fare. They change it up sometimes, if Leno or Letterman have on a decent band or a guest they halfway care about; sometimes they even land on Cartoon Network’s endless run of ancient cartoons, rediscovering vaguely familiar episodes of _The Flintstones_ or _Scooby Doo_. Jen barely cares what they watch; the act itself has a soothing effect, getting her brain clear and quiet, nearly making up for the lost hour or two of sleep. 

Judy teases her about it, marveling at the stark contrast to Jen’s old, bossy demands that all dorm activities cease at ten pm. Now, it’s usually Judy who calls lights out for the night; she staunchly believes that Jen needs more than five hours of sleep a night, an opinion she usually repeats before turning off the TV and returning to her own bed for the night – the TV’s screen is so small, there’s no good view from Judy’s side of the dorm room.

Without discussing it, they fall into an unofficial routine on weekends: one night going out, one night staying in. The nights out, to nearby dive bars or parties in on campus apartments, usually include Audrey, Matthew, and Preston, plus the occasional smattering of other dance students. Jen isn’t sure what happened to Judy’s two dozen other groups of friends, but Judy doesn’t seem to miss them, never giving up weekend nights in to put in an appearance at someone’s loft party or poetry slam.

Their new television does a lot for those _staying in_ nights, rendering the common room or the dorm’s basement lounge completely irrelevant to them. They develop loosely defined drinking games for their most frequently watched shows, knocking back gulps of spiked diet soda every time Blair and Jo bicker or Ricky demands that Lucy explain herself. Once, they try taking a sip for every canned laugh from the studio audience and end up wasted by the end of one episode; there’s a black and white photo of Jen on that particular Saturday, flat on her bed, glassy eyed but grinning, with a near empty wine bottle tucked in her arm like a teddy bear. 

The photography thing is another second semester novelty; Judy comes home at the end of the first week of classes with a camera, on loan for the semester, and a pharmacy bag full of recently purchased film. She has to turn in a full roll each week, on top of more specific assignments; the first is to fill a roll with photos of the same subject in a variety of compositions and different depth of field. Jen becomes the reluctant subject - she hopes Judy’s professor enjoys the photo of Jen scowling at the camera and blocking her face with a raised middle finger, but after a few days of Judy wearing the camera around her neck like a favored piece of jewelry, Jen learns to ignore the abrupt flashes and shutter clicks. 

Between photography and her painting class, Judy’s in the studio more than she was last year, developing in the dark room at least once a week or putting in a few evening hours on whatever canvas is in progress. Jen ends up memorizing Judy’s code that gets art majors into the building; it’s not far from the dance studio, so it’s easier to just swing by after her last workshop and perch on the table closest to Judy’s workspace, bugging her and watching her paint until she’s ready to quit for the night and go to dinner. 

The downside of this, obviously, is that the art studio is usually filled with art students. It doesn’t take long for Jen to definitively decide that Judy is the most talented person in the program, and it isn’t even close; there’s a guy in Judy’s class whose canvas is set up next to hers, and over the course of a few days, Jen watches his “abstract” painting evolve into what is clearly a huge, multicolored pair of breasts. According to Judy, no one points that out during the in-class critique. 

“There’s no fucking way no one noticed.”

“To be fair,” Judy says. “This first assignment was mostly about using the color grid and different oil techniques, so the crit mostly focused on that. Not so much the actual content...Professor Talenti mainly just praised his _alla prima_ work.”

“Alla what?” 

Judy gives Jen a smug smile. “Your major’s not the only one with fancy foreign language terms. It’s _Italian_ _.”_

“Italian for what, _rainbow tits?”_

The first time Jen had shown up to hang out with Judy in the studio, the tit painter in question had also introduced himself to Jen as, “Ian Isley. Isley with an _I_ _..._ two eyes to see the world.” 

Honestly. Fucking _art majors._

Most of them don’t even bother with the introductions; they just assume Jen is one of them – even when she shows up in a leotard, tights and leg warmers – and that she’s dying to hear about their current project. One Tuesday night, Jen’s perched on top of a drawing table, eating an ill advised pre-dinner snack from the vending machine and waiting for Judy to emerge from the dark room when some dude suddenly sits down beside her, heaves a theatrical sigh, and starts going on and on about his sculpture’s breakage in the kiln. When he finally stops whining to take a breath, and Jen has yet to give him a single verbal acknowledgement, he looks over at her and asks, “So what are you working on?” 

Jen doesn’t even look at him. “Working on this bag of Doritos, mainly.” 

Fortunately, Judy reappears from the darkroom and saves Jen from further conversation; unfortunately, her cheerful, “Hi, Brian!” is apparently enough prompting for him to repeat the entire cracked sculpture saga before Jen can finally herd her out of the building for the night.

+

  
  


It’s Thursday night, the second week of February, and Jen’s sitting at her desk, inches away from her tabletop vanity mirror, delicately plucking her eyebrows when Judy steps into the dorm. 

“Hey,” Jen greets, yanking a baby-fine hair from her right brow. She blows on the tip of the tweezers to get rid of it. “How was class?”

“It was fine. Well, mostly.” Judy shrugs off her coat and drapes it over the back of her desk chair. “We finished the in-class still lifes...my professor said my technique is good, but I was painting my preexisting _perception_ of a watering can instead of the actual, specific watering can.” 

Jen has no fucking clue what that bit of artsy bullshit means, but a commiserating scowl seems like the appropriate response. “Screw him.”

“Her.”

“Whatever,” Jen mumbles, combing a spooly through her now perfectly shaped brows. She sees Judy approach her desk in her peripheral, feels the subtle shift of the table when Judy leans against the edge.

Judy’s quiet for a moment, watching Jen primp like it’s something fascinating, before murmuring, “You missed one.”

“Where?”

“Right here,” Judy says, poking the confused wrinkle between Jen’s eyebrows. She drags her finger down the bridge of Jen’s nose and flicks the tip.

Scoffing, Jen bats her hand away. “Very funny.” She uncaps her concealer stick, applies a light coat under her eyes, and looks up at Judy while she blends it in. “We have to be outta here soon. Unless you _want_ to piss Matthew off for missing his fuck buddy’s birthday.”

“Preston’s his boyfriend,” Judy corrects, waltzing towards the crammed, narrow cabinet UNY passes off as a closet.

Jen scoffs. “How could he be? Preston wants to be a fucking market research analyst — whatever the hell that is. Matthew’s dream is being Emcee in the next _Cabaret_ revival. They don’t have anything in common.”

“Neither do we.”

“We’re not a couple.”

“I know that. I just mean that two people can be really different and still be a good match,” Judy clarifies, her voice partly muffled as she pulls off her paint stained tunic in exchange for a fitted, cinnamon colored t-shirt that stops just below her belly button, leaving an inch high strip of skin visible above the skirt she pairs it with — ankle length and taupe, dotted with small brown flowers. 

It’s a perfect outfit for their actual destination, the one Jen’s kept secret for the last week.

Lying to Judy was easier than Jen expected once she’d reluctantly recruited Audrey and Matthew as co-conspirators. Jen had laid out the cover story during the break between ballet and contemporary class, and they delivered the rehearsed lie with total believability at lunch that day when Judy joined them: Preston’s birthday was on Thursday, the 8th, and Matthew wanted the five of them to hit the town to celebrate — school night be damned.

Matthew, in particular, had thrown himself into the performance, improvising an unnecessarily detailed itinerary for the evening, and even a sentimental backstory to explain why they just _had_ to go to a particular restaurant that was nowhere close to campus. Jen had agreed with an apathetic eyeroll, and Judy, as expected, accepted the invitation with enthusiasm.

When Jen finishes her makeup, she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, knowing that she’d want it out of her face, and opts for a black tank-top, jeans with deep pockets, and boots to protect her feet. She pulls a thick, gray flannel over her shoulders, planning to wrap it around her waist when they get to the show.

Judy’s face pinches at her choice. “Aren’t you going to be cold? It’s like forty degrees.”

“Not really. We’re taking a cab. We won’t be outside that long, and I don’t feel like checking a coat anywhere.”

Judy nods, hangs her own coat in the closet, and pulls out a cable knit cardigan instead. She brushes her hair out, applies some mascara and lipstick, and drops both tubes into her purse for touch-ups.

“You should take your other bag. The black one,” Jen suggests, taking her ID, cash, and keys out of her own purse and shoving it all into her pockets.

“Why?”

“If we end up at a bar or something it’ll be better to have a crossbody than one you have to wear on your shoulder,” Jen explains.

“Okay.” Judy transfers her things to the smaller purse and teases, “You want to pick my shoes out, too?”

“No,” Jen retorts, and then mutters, “Just wear comfortable ones.”

Judy smirks. “Yes, ma’am.”

+

It’s just past six o’clock when Jen hails their cab. She opens the door, letting Judy slide in first.

The driver looks over her shoulder when they’re settled in the backseat. Her multi-colored, beaded earrings rattle with the movement.

“Where to?”

“239 West 52nd,” Jen answers.

“Got it,” the driver confirms.

Judy leans forward. “I love your earrings!”

“Thank you, sweetie!”

“Did you make them?”

Jen rolls her eyes, then lets her gaze drift out the window. This conversation could last the whole drive. By now she’s used to Judy being like this – so entirely _herself_ _,_ even with strangers. 

“My niece, actually. She has herself a little jewelry shop uptown.”

“Wow!” Judy says, sounding genuinely impressed. “She’s really talented. Those are beautiful.”

When the cab stills at a red light, the driver reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. She passes it through the partition window without taking her eyes off the road. “If ya ever lookin’ for somethin’ pretty. Tell her Aunt Gladys sent ya.”

“I will! Thank you!” Judy takes the card and slips it into the zipper pocket on the side of her purse.

Jen’s braced for more jewelry talk, but instead Judy settles back in her seat and goes quiet for a few minutes. Gin Blossoms are playing on the radio; Judy likes the song, but she doesn’t so much as hum along or mouth the words, which is how Jen knows she’s thinking.

“Shouldn’t we have ridden with Audrey?” 

“She’s going with Matthew and Preston.”

“I thought Preston’s suitemates were with them.”

Goddamn Matthew, adding a full cast of characters and way too many details to this _very_ _simple_ ruse. 

“Guess not,” Jen says lamely. “All I know is what Audrey told me in choreo.” 

“Mmhmmm,” Judy hums skeptically. 

Jen pointedly doesn’t look at her, maintaining a vaguely bored expression while keeping an eye out the cab window. They’re both quiet for another three songs, and Jen doesn’t break the silence until they’re one block away, their actual destination just barely in sight. 

“So, here’s the thing.” Jen bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning too soon. “It’s not Preston’s birthday.”

“A- _ha_ _!”_ Judy swats Jen’s arm in triumph. “I _knew_ he didn’t seem like an Aquarius!” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “Oh sure, _that’s_ the major red flag here.” 

“You should’ve said it was Matthew’s birthday, I would _maybe_ buy him as one...but he already told me he’s a Libra.” For a moment, Judy grins at her in satisfaction, but then her brow furrows and it apparently occurs to her to ask. “Wait, but okay...if it’s not Preston’s birthday, what are we doing?” 

Jen rolls her eyes. She assumed Judy’s suspicions had led her all the way there, but apparently she was entirely focused on the case of Preston’s fucking star sign. With exaggerated patience, Jen explains, “It’s not _Preston’s_ birthday, _but …”_

Judy frowns. “But...my birthday’s not for two weeks.” 

“Hence all the lying…” Jen raises her voice to the driver; traffic has slowed them to a stop, though they’re technically on the opposite side of the street. “We can jump out here, thanks.”

She’s kept an eye on the meter, and leans forward to pass the driver some cash.

“You girls have a good night...and hey.” She catches Judy’s eye and winks. “Happy birthday.” 

_“ _T_ wo_ _weeks_ early,” Judy marvels to her new best friend, adding a, “Really nice meeting you!” before sliding out of the backseat after Jen.

They straighten up on the sidewalk, and it takes a second before Judy gets a look at the building looming over them. Her face goes slack, horror filling her eyes. “Oh, God…”

“What?” Jen asks innocently. 

Judy narrows her gaze at Jen, scrutinizing her. Clearly not wanting to believe it. “Are...are we seeing _Cats_ again?” 

“You _would_ deserve a repeat showing…birthday revenge kinda thing. But, no.” Jen drops her hands on Judy’s shoulders and gently pivots her away from the Winter Garden Theater to face the building directly across the street: The Roseland Ballroom, the marquee lit up behind letters spelling out _Alanis Morissette_. Their real destination for the evening. 

Judy actually _gasps_ _,_ soft and sharp, and then blurts out a completely sincere, “Fuck _off._ _”_ that cracks Jen up, it’s so unexpected. 

Judy whirls around to face her, expression swarmed with excitement and hope. “You’re serious.” 

Jen pulls the concert tickets from the zipped up pocket in her jacket, showing them off like a winning hand of poker. “Kinda _rude_ of Alanis not to come on your actual birthday, forced me to do all this fuckin’ work – “

She’s cut off when Judy hugs her, so hard she almost knocks Jen down on the sidewalk.

+

They pull out their fake IDs at the door and get 21+ wristbands; Jen spends way too much money at the bar in the lobby, and she won’t let Judy pay for any of it. They do shots first, then take two drinks each because, according to Jen, they won’t be able to move once they stake out spots. 

Sloshing costs them maybe a quarter of each drink bulldozing through the crowd in the huge space that’s entirely general admission, standing room, but it’s worth it for the spot Jen gets them: far right, directly in front of the stage. This is Judy’s first concert, but Jen seems to know what she’s doing: she’s impressively aggressive getting them through the crowd to the stage, and once they get there, she makes sure they stay put. A group of teenagers try to unknot themselves and spread out beside them – one jostles Judy in the process, and before she can apologize and step back, Jen snaps a firm _“_ _Nope_ _.”_ and extends her arms on either side of Judy, palms landing on the stage and caging her in. 

Jen had gotten them here early, and there’s over an hour before the opener even starts. Judy turns around to face her, leaning back against the stage, but she can barely carry on a conversation; the sheer anticipation is so strong it’s a distraction, and her voice keeps dissolving into trails of giddy laughter while she glances over her shoulder at the stage, confirming again and again they’re really here. 

Even the music playing over the sound system before the show is good. Whoever selected the tracks seems to know their audience – it could easily be one of Jen’s mixtapes. Judy’s tipsy from her quick finish of both vodka sodas, and she’s singing along to a barely audible Cranberries track when Jen smirks at her, says she might want to save her voice.

Judy’s only ever heard one song from K’s Choice, the band who opens the show; she can feel Jen getting impatient during their set, propping an elbow on Judy’s shoulder and sighing in her ear, but Judy likes it. Most of their songs are on the quiet, calmer side, and have the crowd swaying happily along but not spending too much energy. They introduce themselves before the final song, and Judy thinks it’s sweet that the band is fronted by siblings. 

There’s another wait after they finish, and the atmosphere feels thicker now that there’s leftover music in it, the crowd’s growing excitement reverberating above them. Finally the lights go all the way down, prompting screams and applause; Judy’s heart feels ready to launch itself out of her chest. She can see dim outlines onstage, silhouettes picking up guitars or settling in behind a drum kit. Then, a familiar harmonica note rings out, the audience goes freshly wild, but the stage stays dark until the second Alanis starts to sing, her voice striking like a storm’s first blistering crack of lightning to ask, _“_ _Do I stress you out?”_

Judy had barely heard Alanis Morissette’s music before coming to New York, save for catching snippets of the “You Oughta Know” music video when channel surfing toward the end of summer. But Jen played her album more than anything else those first few months in the dorm. Judy had gotten to know Jen and the music at the same time; by the end of fall break, they felt like best friends, and the songs felt like they belonged to them both. 

Completely by accident, these songs had been the first thing Jen had ever given Judy. And here she is giving them to her again, bigger and better and so much more _alive_ _._

It’s amazing. Every fucking second of it. 

Alanis spends the show pacing from one end of the stage to the other, the spotlight following her in her purple shirt and black leather pants, spreading her voice out so every song feels like a living thing, barely big enough to fit inside the building. 

Despite the concert’s stench of smoke and sweat and beer, more than anything it reminds Judy of church. A sea of voices blending together, bloody with raw feeling – the unity of their shared devotion beautiful whether in a hymn or an anthem. Jen’s voice, though, is the closest, and Judy likes when she can pick it out. Sometimes she even spins from the stage to look at Jen instead, when a particular chorus or verse needs to be firmly shared. 

It doesn’t take long before Judy’s sweaty and sore footed in the best way; during the comparatively calm verses of “Head Over Feet”, she gathers the wild mess of her hair and lifts it up off her neck, seeing a momentary reprieve, but as soon as she lets it fall Jen’s hands are there instead, quickly braiding it and looping a spare ponytail holder around the end before draping it over Judy’s shoulder. Judy shoots her a quick, grateful look, and after that all the jumping and dancing feels a little tamer. 

She and Jen shred their throats shout-singing along to “You Oughta Know”, and soon after the lights go down again. While the rest of the crowd screams for an encore, Judy spins on her heel and throws her arms around Jen in a tight, sweaty embrace. 

“I’m sorry!” 

“Huh?” Jen pulls back to give Judy a confused look. “Why are you _sorry_ _?_ ” 

“Because this was incredible...and on your birthday I made you go to _Cats_ _.”_

Jen laughs at her. “Cheer up! Maybe if we shout out a request she can play what’s-it-called, y’know...fuckin’ Magical Mr. Monopoly.” 

_“Mistoflees_ _,”_ Judy corrects with a giggle.

“I hope you aren't proud of knowing that.” 

+

It’s midnight by the time they leave the Roseland, mainly because Jen insists they join the messy lines of people at the merch booths, where it takes almost forty minutes to buy a single tour T-shirt. A spontaneous singalong of “Ironic” broke out in the lobby halfway through their wait, so Judy didn’t even mind the long lines. 

Still, when they finally leave the venue, the chilly bite of February air is a welcome shock to the system after the stifling heat of the last few hours spent shoulder to shoulder with strangers. 

Jen throws the folded black T-shirt over one shoulder. “You hungry? We could go to the diner again.”

Judy raises her eyebrows, concerned. “Shouldn’t we head back? You’ve still gotta get up so early…” 

“Oh shit,” Jen grins. “I sorta forgot it’s a weeknight…” She pauses, but only for a second before shrugging. “Fuck it, I’m starving. I can always skip ballet in the morning if I need to.”

“Whoa.” 

“Again, _if_ I need to.”

“Still. You’ve never missed a dance class. Feels like a big deal.” 

“Only for you. And Alanis. And that cherry pie, which was fucking _excelle nt_ _.”_

They walk to the same 50’s style diner they’d gone to after _Cats_ . When they’ve finished dinner and ordered slices of pie from the dessert menu, Judy grins at Jen from across the booth and says, “So this definitely counts as a birthday _tradition_ now, right?” 

Jen smirks. “Is two times enough for a tradition?”

“I think so. Especially since we only have two birthdays a year.” 

“Wow, we’re lucky. Most people only have one.” 

Judy shoots her an exasperated look. “You know what I mean. _We_ – “ She motions between the two of them. “ – have two birthdays a year. So now, this is our official _tradition_ _.”_ She starts counting on her fingers. “Tickets to a show. Buying _one_ shirt from the show as a joint souvenir. Then here for late dinner and birthday pie.”

“We should probably be flexible about specifically coming _here_ for the dinner and pie part,” Jen points out. “Might be hard to keep all shows within a two block radius.” 

_“ Unless …”_

“What?” 

“If we wanna get real literal with the tradition...we probably can’t guarantee Alanis comes here every February. Which sucks, obviously. But still, we could say for my birthday, we go to a concert at Roseland, and on your birthday, _per tradition_ _,_ we go see, just, y’know…” She grins, slow and sly. “Whatever’s on at the Winter Garden Theater.” 

“I hate you.” 

“It won’t be _Cats_ forever! Probably.”

“Oh, sure, it’s only been running for like fifteen fucking years…”

“And you said the cherry pie here is excellent,” Judy reminds her, reaching across the table to help herself to a bite. 

“It’s not _that_ fucking good.” Jen fights her off with her own fork. “Go back to your bullshit apple.” 

“It’s not bullshit, it’s classic!” 

“Well, I’m sure we can find acceptable apple pie at any of the three hundred diners in the city.” 

_“Fiiiine_ _,”_ Judy mock sighs. “So the tradition is a Broadway show on your birthday, concert on mine...one T-shirt...and _any_ diner that has pie.” 

“I can agree to those terms.” With a sudden grin, she tosses the T-shirt across the table. “Pretty sure it’s also tradition that you get first dibs on the shirt.” 

“Cool, then I’m definitely wearing it to class tomorrow.” 

“Just don’t get paint on it...it’s still _our_ shirt.” 

“Painting was today, tomorrow’s photography.” 

“Well, whatever. Keep away from chemicals.” 

“Hey.” Judy gently nudges her foot against Jen’s under the booth. “Thank you for tonight. I had the best time.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t figure it out.” Jen rolls her eyes. “Even if we did try to convince you Preston’s a fucking _Libra_ _,_ God forbid.” 

_"Aquarius_ _,_ Jen.” 

Jen scowls. _“_ _Sorry_ _._ I don’t get this shit, I thought you’re always saying you’re a Pisces.” 

Judy grins, pleased Jen remembers _that_ _,_ at least. “Yeah, but I’m on the cusp.” 

“Whatever _that_ fucking means.” Jen makes a face at her that gets Judy giggling again. “Oh, shit hold on…”

Jen opens up her small cross body and pulls out her lighter. She extends her arm across the table, flicks her thumb so a flame appears. “I guess we were supposed to do this _before_ actually eating the pie, but whatever. Still traditional.” 

Judy smiles at Jen over the glow of the tiny fire, her chest warming at the gesture; she likes knowing that Jen remembers little things like this, too. Her smile quickly fades, though, and she lifts her hand to her mouth to keep from accidentally blowing out the makeshift candle. 

“I don’t think I’m supposed to make a wish when it’s not my actual birthday. Or at least the actual birthday weekend.” 

“Fine, then.” Jen pulls her arm back but doesn’t kill the light, instead propping her elbow on the table and gazing wistfully at the flame. “ _You_ were the one going on and on about making everything a tradition, but I get it. Our traditional lighter in a diner wish isn’t a _real_ birthday wish, so it’s not even important, I guess. That’s _fine.”_

Judy knows Jen is joking, but if there’s even a single grain of truth to her being offended, Judy wants to make sure she fixes it. “I guess now that I’m thinking about it – “

“Oh, you’re still thinking about it?” Jen asks innocently. 

“– the _ritualist_ aspect of tonight’s tradition is probably powerful enough, in its own way. Probably _more_ powerful. As long as I don’t make another wish _on_ my birthday. Two in one year is a lot to ask of the universe.”

“Jude, you wish on shit all the fucking time. Eyelashes. 11:11. I’m assuming, like, dandelions and shooting stars when you didn’t live in a concrete city where the lights never go off.”

“Those are all up for grabs. Birthday wishes are different. We only get one.” 

“Uh huh.” Jen’s flicking the lighter on and off now. “So you doing this or not?” 

“I’m doing this,” Judy says firmly. 

_“Finally.”_

Jen extends the lighter in her direction again, and Judy closes her eyes and extinguishes it in one breath. All that build up and she still, secretly, didn’t actually make a wish; Judy can’t quite believe that it counts this early, and anyway, after a night like tonight, it feels greedy to wish for anything else. 

+

Valentine’s day at Portofino is mayhem. The restaurant is booked to capacity. Customers are jam-packed at the bar, and there’s a line of annoyed, reservation-less couples lining the sidewalk out front.

It’s a few minutes past six. Judy’s been working since lunch, which was no less chaotic than the dinner rush. There are five tables under her charge, but she fulfills the request of every customer who catches her attention, so she’s been delivering extra bread, silverware, and drink refills to what feels like the entire restaurant for hours.

Judy’s feet are sore. She’s sweating under her white button-up, and her ponytail is so tight and headache-inducing that she’s had to pop two aspirin in the employee bathroom just to get through her shift.

She’s the definition of overworked, so it’s a welcomed sight when she sees the hostess guiding Jen’s parents through the crowd to their reserved table for two in her section.

“Hi!” Judy greets, setting two menus down on the table. “I’m so glad you made it! Was traffic awful? It’s been so busy. I didn’t even think about how hard it would be for you guys to drive —”

“Oh, stop. It was fine,” Maggie assures, embracing Judy in a warm hug as Hank pulls out her chair. “We’re used to it.” 

Once she’s seated, Hank walks around to his chair, patting Judy on the shoulder as he goes and whispering, “Hiya, kiddo.”

Judy smiles, grateful for the reprieve. When she offered them a coveted Valentine’s day reservation at her restaurant, she forgot they’d have to drive from Brooklyn. Jen told her early on during Christmas break that Maggie couldn’t ride the subway or take a cab. It was too high risk for her immune system, especially now during flu season.

“Well, you definitely can’t tell you just sat in a car for an hour. You look _so_ nice!”

Maggie’s wearing a cream sweater with a bejeweled, red brooch. She chuckles, stroking the festive, rose-printed scarf around her head. “This old thing?”

Judy smiles and motions towards Jen’s father. “I like the tie, too, Hank.”

“Thanks, honey.” He half-smiles. “Only damn day of the year I wear one.”

“You should wear it more! It really brings out your eyes,” Judy says.

Hank proudly tightens the knot.

Maggie scoffs, “Sure. I tell you that and you bitch and moan about wearing one to dinner.” She pauses to look up at Judy. “But a pretty young thing like you says it and suddenly he thinks he’s Richard Gere.”

Judy chuckles. “I can see a resemblance.”

“Oh, stop, Judy, before his head gets so big we can’t get him through the door,” Maggie jokes, reaching for the menu. “So, what’s good here? I want whatever you like. Jen said something about margarita flatbread.”

Judy nods. “Mmhmm, that’s one of the most popular appetizers. I bring it home for us sometimes. It’s really good room temp,” she explains before catching herself. “But I promise it’ll be hot when it comes out!”

Maggie smiles. “I believe you. I think I’ll get the eggplant parm for my meal. What are you thinkin’, Edward Lewis?”

Hank rolls his eyes and gives the menu a quick look. “How’s the pork chops?”

Judy’s shirt collar suddenly feels tight. “Um, I don’t—”

“She doesn’t eat meat, hon,” Maggie reminds him.

“Right, right. Sorry, Jude.”

“It’s okay! I think they’re really good. People don’t usually send them back. And I know the mashed potatoes they come with are great.”

“Can’t say no to that,” Hank says. 

Judy takes their menus and cradles them in the crook of her arm. “What can I bring you to drink? We’re running a special on all the wine tonight. There’s a really nice pinot grigio imported from—” Judy stops when she notices Hank subtly shaking his head. She looks at Maggie, stomach heavy with embarrassment. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry! I should have known…”

“Stop. Both of you,” Maggie says, looking pointedly at her husband.

“It might upset your stomach, Mags,” Hank warns.

“Dr. Trousdale says having a little bit to drink on special occasions is fine.” She smiles up at Judy. “I’ll have half a glass of whatever bottle you were talking about. I’ve always preferred white.”

Judy has an urge to tell Maggie that Jen prefers white wine as well, but ignores it, knowing that narcing on her best friend would overshadow any sweet sentiment her mother would have about having similar taste in wine.

“Are you sure?” Judy asks, terrified of causing Maggie any nausea or pain.

“Very,” Maggie says, giving Judy’s elbow a reassuring squeeze. “And my grump of a husband will take whatever domestic beer you’ve got.”

Judy glances at Hank. “Just listen to her, kiddo,” he sighs. “Been my motto for the last twenty years.”

“Okay,” she exhales. “Back in a jiff.”

Judy goes straight to the kitchen to put in Jen’s parents’ orders. She’s happy that they want to stretch dinner out for as long as possible, but she still doesn’t want to keep them waiting for anything. They took care of her for weeks in their home, and despite Judy being low on the totem pole at Portofino, the restaurant is _her_ house, and she wants Maggie and Hank to feel like the night’s most honored guests, so she doesn’t feel guilty when she asks Chase, the nicer of the two working bartenders, to pour their drinks as fast as possible.

“Really working for those tips tonight, huh?” Chase quips, handing her the wine and beer glasses.

“No, just...really important people,” Judy says, shooting him an appreciative smile. “Thanks for being quick. You’re doing a great job!”

She hears Chase laugh as she walks away. “Thanks, Miss Rogers.”

Her co-workers started calling her that within the first month of her working there. Apparently, her tendency to compliment and encourage everyone reminds them of the cardigan-wearing, kind-hearted neighbor they all grew up watching on TV.

Judy doesn’t mind the nickname. She’s had worse.

When she returns to Maggie and Hanks table, she frowns at the fresh serving of garlic bread sitting between them.

“I should have gotten that first. I’m sorry,” she apologizes, setting down their drinks.

“Don’t be. I waved down someone else on purpose. I want to meet some of the people you work with,” Maggie explains, and then lowers her voice. “Tell me. Who do we like, and who’s a pain in the ass?”

“Christ, Maggie,” Hank groans, wiping a bread crumb from his mustache.

She reaches across the table to smack him softly on the wrist. “Let me live vicariously! I haven’t had co-workers in years. I miss workplace gossip.”

Hank scoffs. “I don’t.” He looks directly at Judy. “The hours I spent listenin’ to this woman gripe about Sharon Kirby — I’ll never get those back.”

Judy presses her lips together, suppressing a giggle.

“It was warranted. She slept with our friend Janice’s brother two weeks after his divorce, and she walked around the office without her shoes on. Not even in pantyhose! Bare feet,” Maggie explains, face pinched with distaste. She shakes off the memory and regroups. “So, who’s the Sharon Kirby around here?”

“Well, everyone keeps their shoes on. I think it’s a health code violation if we don’t,” Judy answers. Maggie’s eyes soften, and she realizes that question wasn’t literal. She scans the restaurant for co-workers. “The waitress by the long table in the middle. The redhead. That’s Renee Jenkins. She’s really nice. She’s the first person I ask when I need to swap a shift, and she almost always says yes. The hostess, Janie, is great, too. People yell at her so much about reservations and wait times, but she never loses her cool.”

Maggie hums, nodding. “So, we like Renee and Janie.”

Judy shrugs, apologetic that she couldn’t entertain Maggie with juicer gossip. “I like everyone for the most part.”

“Because you got a good head on your shoulders. You don’t bother with that catty nonsense,” Hank says.

Judy’s heart constricts. She feels warm all over. It’s a foreign concept: an older man, a _dad,_ being proud of her.

“What about boys?” Maggie suddenly prompts.

Startled, Judy counters, “What about them?”

“There’s got to be one or two cute ones worth mentioning,” Maggie reasons and leans in her booth to look across the restaurant. “The one at the bar is adorable”

“And I guess I’m chopped liver,” Hank grumbles.

Maggie takes his hand over the table. “Stop. You’re the most handsome man in here. In the whole damn city. I’m just asking Judy about the _young_ ones.”

Judy’s almost too distracted by the display of affection between them to respond. It’s sweet, so much so that it seems unreal, like she’s watching a movie. She can’t imagine what it was like for Jen to grow up with two parents who were so in love, who stood by each other through the biggest challenges life could throw at them. It’s voyeuristic and downright creepy, but she wishes she could stand here all night, silently, and watch them bicker and flirt and be in love.

“So, who do you like lookin’ at?” Maggie continues.

Judy shakes her head. “No one here. Not really.” 

After her embarrassing tryst with Andrew last year, she doesn’t want so much as a crush on any co-workers.

“At school then? Oh, I hope you didn’t have to cancel a Valentine’s date to work tonight,” Maggie says, eyes swimming with concern.

“I didn’t,” Judy says. 

It never occurred to Judy that she should have a date for Valentine’s day. She’s never had one before, not seriously. Her high school flings weren’t the type of guys to buy candy and flowers. The best she ever got was a broken chocolate bar Jeremy found in the backseat of his ‘78 Corvette after he took her virginity.

“What about Jen? Did she have plans tonight? She didn’t mention any the last time we talked, but you know her. She never tells us anything.”

“Because it’s none of our business,” Hank says, face sourly pinched like Jen’s dating life is the last topic in the world he wants to discuss. “And neither is whoever Judy likes lookin’ at.”

“I’m allowed to be curious about our girls.”

 _Our_ girls.

Judy’s throat is constricted from the overwhelming desire to cry, but she squeaks the words out. “You’re totally allowed.”

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, sweetheart,” Maggie apologizes.

“It’s okay. Really, there’s not too much to tell. Jen’s just back at the dorm...if I didn’t have to work I’d just be hanging out with her.” 

Maggie takes a deep breath and smiles, soft and satisfied, when she exhales. “Well, I’m sorry you’re stuck here with us.”

“I’m not,” Judy says, fully meaning it.

There’s a clatter in the kitchen. When Judy looks towards the back of the restaurant, she notices her manager’s eyes on her. The graying man makes a circular motion with his finger, a silent demand to stop dawdling and do her job. Judy frowns, “Sorry, I need to check on my other tables. Your appetizer will probably be done soon. I’ll bring it out the second it is.”

“Of course! Go, go,” Maggie tells her.

“Don’t worry about us,” Hank assures and pats his pants pocket, winking. “Your tip’s already secured for this table.”

Judy doesn’t hug him, but she wants to.

Her four other tables are thankfully pleasant. None of her customers seem to care that she’s not making small talk between drink refills and food deliveries. Judy does enough so that every meal ends with smiling faces and generous gratuity, but even if they didn’t, she wouldn’t care. Maggie and Hank love the flatbread and cheesy stuffed mushrooms.

“Did we order these?” Hank asked, poking a mushroom cap with his fork.

“Nope! Extra free appetizer for any couple who's celebrating an anniversary today,” Judy says, nose crinkled. She knows full well that they got married in the summer. She saw the photos over Christmas. “I lied. Don’t tell my boss.”

Maggie giggles, already pink-faced from a couple sips of wine, and Hank holds out his hand for a low five.

The main courses go over just as well. Maggie eats half of her pasta, more than Judy’s ever seen her ingest in one sitting, and Hank scrapes his plate clean. They linger for almost an hour after Judy clears the table. It’s half past nine when they finally ask for the check. Judy brings it immediately, along with a paper bag holding Maggie’s leftovers and a complimentary order of tiramisu.

“You sure you don’t want to close the place down? Only an hour and a half to go,” Judy jokes.

“Next time,” Maggie promises.

“What’s this extra fifteen percent off?” Hank asks, opening up his bill fold. “You tell ‘em it’s my birthday, too?”

Judy shakes her head. “Family discount.”

“We’re really robbin’ the place tonight,” Hank laughs under his breath and hands Judy five twenty dollar bills. “Keep the change.”

“But that’s way too —”

Maggie holds up her hand, silencing her. “Don’t argue with him, Judy. That’s my job.”

Judy presses her lips together to keep a litany of gratitude from spilling out. She helps Maggie out of the booth, and steps aside so Hank can slip his wife’s coat onto her arms. Once she’s buttoned, Maggie hugs Judy, thanking her again for the invitation. Hank hugs her, too, but quicker, murmuring about how he needs to summon the valet with their car so Maggie’s not waiting outside in the cold. He grabs the bag with their leftovers and heads for the door.

“Any idea when you girls will visit next?” Maggie asks.

“I’m not sure. Soon though,” Judy promises. It’s vague, but she can’t offer Maggie any concrete dates without Jen knowing.

They walk side by side to the front of Portofino. There are a dozen people crowding the hostess stand begging to be seated. A rush of fear strikes through Judy when she considers the germs and viruses any of them could be carrying, so she angles herself between Maggie and other customers. If Jen’s mom got sick because she came to her restaurant, Judy wouldn’t forgive herself. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for Hank to come back.

“Ready, sweets? We promised Mrs. Oatman we wouldn’t be late,” Hank says.

“Mrs. Oatman?” Judy asks.

Maggie sighs. “She’s sitting with Yogi.”

“He’s not used to being by himself,” Hank adds before holding up a pink gift bag with purple tissue paper sticking out of the top. “Speaking of, he wanted me to give you this. You gotta birthday comin’ up, right?”

Judy’s mouth falls open. “Y-yeah, I do.”

Maggie wraps her in a side hug. “Happy Birthday, honey.”

“Thank you so much! This is so nice.” Judy’s barely able to speak through the knot in her throat.

Jen’s parents knowing about her birthday meant that Jen told them over a week in advance. She overhears their phone conversations enough in the dorm to know that Jen mentions her, but it’s always within the context of what Jen did that day or what plans she had coming up. Judy’s never the sole topic of conversation, but the gift bag in her hand proves that at least once, she was.

“Don’t thank us. Thank the Yogster next time you’re at the house,” Hank tells her with a roguish smirk.

“I will,” Judy promises, smiling with watery eyes.

The three of them exchange goodbyes, and Judy watches through the glass doors while they get into the idling car and drive away. Once they’re gone, she can’t help herself. She hurries towards the kitchen, makes a right down the small hallway, and locks herself in the employee bathroom to open her present.

Judy closes her eyes and feels around inside the bag for a card. She didn’t know until she was living with her second foster family, the Tates, that the polite thing to do when you open a gift is to read the card first. She’d never gotten one before the first and only birthday she spent with them.

The card is a simple one — just a picture of a birthday cake on the front with one line of text printed on the inside: _May your birthday be sprinkled with fun and laughter!_ But, there’s a handwritten message below it.

_Happy birthday, Judy! We’re so grateful that Jen has you in her life and we’re lucky that she brought you into ours. We couldn’t have asked for a better roommate and best friend for our girl. We hope your first birthday in the city is as special as you are. Have a wonderful day and enjoy your gift. We thought you could use a new one._

_Love, Hank, Maggie, & Yogi Russell _

Judy reads it over and over. Her eyes well up with every pass, and she has to force herself to put the card down and breathe before she cries off her makeup. Judy wouldn’t care, but her manager is a stickler for presentation, and black tear stains on her white button up would earn her a write up.

When her eyes are dry, she reaches into the gift bag and pulls out a brand new walkman with a built in radio. Maggie had seen her using Jen’s old one over Christmas break, had wisecracked about how she couldn’t believe it still worked. In addition to the walkman, there’s a huge pack of AA batteries in the bag and a cassette tape — _Abbey Road_ by The Beatles. There’s a post-it stuck to the case.

_Some real music for you. There’s nothing that Here Comes The Sun can’t fix._

The handwriting is different from her birthday card. It’s messy, like Jen’s. Judy smiles and clutches the tape to her chest, wondering if Hank knows how often she’s heard Jen humming the opening notes of the magical, fix-it song.

Her shift drags for the next hour and a half. Judy doesn’t even bother counting her tips before she leaves for the night. It’s below freezing. Judy zips her gift bag inside her coat and walks with her arms around her stomach to keep it from falling. Hank wouldn’t want her walking alone so late at night with a present on display for muggers. The six blocks back to Franklin feel miles long, and when she finally makes it inside, she sits down in the dorm lobby and uses a small pair of nail clippers in her purse to cut open the plastic encasing her new walkman. She loads the batteries and tape and hits play as she walks to the elevator.

“Here Comes The Sun” is the first song.

The melodic guitar strings carry her up to the sixth floor. The doors slide open in time with George Harrison singing about the ice that’s slowly melting. Judy turns down the volume on instinct when she lets herself into the dorm. Jen’s fast asleep, but she left the TV on and muted. It’s a new habit she’s developed since they got the TV, but it’s intermittent. She only does it on nights Judy’s working late, so, as always, Judy uses the faint blue glow to move around the room and get ready for bed.

Judy opens her drawer for pajamas, but stops when she sees their Alanis t-shirt sitting on top of their shared dirty clothes basket. She considers it.

Jen would say it’s gross.

Judy doesn’t care. She’ll shower in the morning. She puts the shirt on and grabs her walkman, thumb on the rewind button as she slips into bed.

The tape restarts, and she falls asleep to George’s voice in her ears, feeling more loved than ever before.

+

Judy’s actual birthday, February 21, falls on a Wednesday. Even though she keeps insisting they already celebrated, Jen talks her into swapping shifts with someone else at the restaurant so she doesn’t have to work her usual dinner shift on her birthday. Instead, they go off campus with Audrey and Matthew, eating dinner at Pizzeria Lombardo. Matthew brings a newspaper wrapped bottle of what he smugly brags was only the _third_ cheapest vodka at a liquor store, while Audrey’s got a gift bag with no tissue paper disguising the bottle of wine inside. If Jen had known alcohol was a standard college friend birthday gift, she would have mentioned hers back in October.

Jen worries it’s an underwhelming day, wedged in the middle of a dreary, frigid week, the sky never coloring beyond gray and pouring more freezing rain than snow. Judy, though, appears perfectly content with the non-dining hall pizza as the only celebration. They hang out in the dorm for a little while after dinner, starting in on the wine Audrey gave Judy and talking, for some reason, about their strangest high school teachers. 

Judy never changes into her pajamas, and around ten she starts pulling on her coat and scarf to head back to the art building for awhile. The first big project for her painting class is due at the beginning of next week, and they don’t get to use class time to work on it, so Judy’s been putting in a few extra daily studio hours to get it done. 

When Jen’s alarm goes off the next morning, she finds Judy in bed, on top of the covers, dead asleep with her clothes still on, indicating a late night. One leg is bent at the knee, hiking her very wrinkled skirt up above her thigh. Jen smirks fondly at the image, then realizes Judy’s going to wake up freezing; the ancient radiator beneath their window turns the small room stifling hot if it’s on for too long, and the hiss and whine of the pipes keeps Judy up at night, so they tend to let it heat the dorm for a few hours in the evening before turning it off to sleep. She tugs a blanket off her own bed and drapes it gingerly over Judy’s sleeping form before grabbing her dance bag and coat.

The sleet starts when they’re in the dining hall later, and after lunch they all cover their heads with coat hoods or beanies and make a run for it, scattering in different directions while Judy heads to photography and Jen heads for fucking Weather and Climate – really, she should get to skip today given the immersive experience on campus – and Audrey and Matthew go to whatever the hell it is they do in the afternoons before History of Dance. 

It hasn’t let up by the time Jen’s classes end for the day. She takes a route to her closest possible destination – Hudson Hall, the art building – knowing Judy’s still there working on her painting. Jen doesn’t usually have to hang out in Hudson for long before they head back to their dorm for dinner, but today they’re waiting out the rain so Jen hits up the vending machines for both of them. She pulls up a stool near Judy’s canvas and hands her pretzels while she paints. Some kid named Wes congratulates Judy on having an art groupie, but before Jen can flip him off, Judy throws a smile over her shoulder and says, “I’ve been her dance groupie for awhile now, so it’s only fair.” 

When he’s turned his attention to his own work, Judy lowers her voice and reassures Jen, “I don’t really think you’re my groupie.” 

“I don’t care.” Jen holds out another pretzel, but Judy’s got a brush in one hand and a paint palette in the other, so she just cranes her neck and takes it between her teeth. Jen smirks. “Actually, tell them I’m your fucking _muse_ _._ Higher status.” 

“Got it.” Judy turns and calls out, “Hey, Wes, she’s actually – “

Jen kicks her lightly on her leg. _“_ _Kidding_ _,_ Jude.” 

“Never mind, Wes!”

“What?”

“I said, _never mind.”_

“Never mind about what?” 

“Just give up,” Jen says. “It’s too loud in here.” 

Rain and ice are lashing against the studio’s floor to ceiling windows, and it sounds like television static with the volume turned all the way up. Someone’s cranked the stereo to compensate, but for the whole hour Jen’s been here it’s been the same music, the vaguely familiar voice of some guy who sounds like he’s moaning instead of singing. 

“The fuck is with this music?” Jen asks eventually. “It’s gonna drive somebody to jump off the fucking roof.”

“Or maybe just slice off an ear,” Judy says, giggling at her own joke. “I think it’s Ian’s tape.”

“Maybe tell Ian to see a therapist.”

“Wow. _Someone’s_ really not a fan of The Smiths.”

Jen glances in the direction of the voice; only when she sees him smirking from behind a nearby canvas does she remember that _Ian_ is the creator of the rainbow breasts painting. Of fucking _course_ he is. 

“Oh, no, I love this,” Jen says dryly. “Goes great with my seasonal depression.” 

Judy gives Jen a concerned look. “You feel depressed?” 

“I didn’t an hour ago but it’s getting pretty close,” Jen says loud enough for Ian to hear, though she’s no longer paying attention to his response. 

She gives Judy another pretzel and watches her work in careful, tentative brushstrokes. All Jen knows about this assignment is that it’s supposed to be _realism_ , which apparently refers to the style instead of the subject: Judy’s canvas shows beluga whales swimming through a night sky instead of an ocean. Her hands are flecked with silver from painting stars. 

The crowd in the studio starts to thin out after awhile, though the rain hasn’t let up. When it’s over an hour past when they’d usually be done eating dinner, Jen and Judy run out of patience. They pull on coats – Jen’s has a hood, Judy puts on the beanie she got for Christmas – and gloves and scarves, and take off through the thick curtain of icy rain separating them from their dorm. They can move at a run through the park, muddying their boots on the stretch of grass at the center of campus, but once they’re back on narrow concrete sidewalks, they have to slow down a little. Jen is already soaked through – she’d worn her thickest wool coat today, thinking of the cold more than the promise of rain - and it feels like she’s been dunked in an icy pond. 

When they make it into the dorm lobby, Jen gets a look at Judy and sees she’s even worse; Jen’s hair at least was under her hood, flopping sideways in her messy, end-of-day bun, but Judy’s is down and drenched along with the beanie. They’re both shivering while they wait for the elevator, and Jen can hear her own teeth chattering. 

The doors slide open and they run inside, leaving behind puddles of water. Side by side, they regard their reflections in the elevator’s paneled mirrors. 

“We l-look like sh, shipwreck victims,” Jen observes.

Judy nods hard in agreement. “Like we just...washed to shore.” She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, making it difficult to tell how hard she’s shaking. “I th, think this is the coldest I’ve ever been. Is that...is it me being weak and Californian?” 

_“Definitely_ _,”_ Jen says between her teeth. “Look at me, this is basically a day at the fucking beach.” 

Judy laughs and presses herself against Jen’s side. The elevator dings when it reaches their floor; Jen would like to sprint this last stretch to warmth, but the dorm hallway is slick with rain water other students have tracked inside, so it has to be a careful walk to their room. Jen pulls a glove off with her teeth, and fumbles for her key. 

They burst inside and make a beeline to the radiator, both of them; Judy gets to the side where the knob is, and she twists it on as they start shrugging off their wet outerwear and lining it on top of the radiator to dry. Jen steps out of her boots last, then practically dives into her unmade bed, jerking every blanketing layer, comforter included, over her whole body.

Judy follows her.

“Scoot over.” She pulls back a corner of the covers and fits herself onto the narrow bed. “Body heat.” 

_“Body heat_ that conveniently keeps _your_ bed nice and dry,” Jen gripes even as she slides over to make room. 

“You’ve got a spare set of sheets!” 

Judy pulls the comforter up to her chin. Having to watch TV from Jen’s bed means they’ve learned how to fit in it together; there have even been occasional weekend nights when they’re a little too buzzed on weed or liquor and Judy’s fallen asleep here. The tight fit isn’t really a problem when they’re inebriated – or suffering from borderline hypothermia. 

Jen turns her head slightly and finds Judy turned on her side to face her. Judy smiles; her hair is damp, curlier than usual, and her eyes look vivid and storm-wild, rimmed with smears of black mascara. Jen smiles back just before her eyes dart to the ceiling; they’re too close to face each other head on. 

“Hey, I have to tell you something.” 

There’s nothing worrisome in Judy’s voice, so Jen just hums in acknowledgement and waits.

“So, you know I went to the studio last night.” 

“Mmmhmm.”

“It’s never too crowded that late during the week, there were just a couple people from my class...like, you know Ian? He was there working on his painting – “

“What’s he doing this time, a flower that’s really a vagina?” 

“What?” Judy sounds confused. “Are you thinking of Georgia O’Keefe?” 

“No, I meant...I was joking, because of that last painting of his I saw. Remember, it looked like tits, you said no one noticed…”

 _“Oh,_ that’s right. But no, I don’t think that style would work for the realism assignment...he’s painting a McDonalds that’s on fire.” 

Jen snorts. _“Deep.”_

“It’s actually turning out pretty good...um, but, anyway, he was working closest to me, so we were just kinda talking like normal, and I ended up telling him it was my birthday. So Ian started making fun of me for doing school stuff on my birthday, but totally in a jokey way...he was actually sweet about it, he offered to draw me a birthday cake really quick and let me make a wish on his lighter…”

Something in Jen’s chest jolts painfully. 

“...but I didn’t, obviously, I said I’d already done the birthday wish thing, and then I was telling him about the concert, and that got us started talking about music for awhile and the birthday subject pretty much got dropped. But then when it was, like, eleven forty-five he said I only had fifteen minutes left for acceptable celebration, and we were just joking around about what I could do really fast in the art building….then Ian said he had an idea and for me to follow him, so I did, and he took me to one of the supply closets and we ended up having sex.” 

There’s a slick, slithering nausea winding itself around Jen’s stomach. Painstakingly, she forces herself to turn and look at Judy again. “Jude, did...he didn’t _make you_ _,_ did he?”

Judy’s eyes widen. “Oh, God, _no_ _._ Not at all! Sorry, I shouldn’t have made it sound like...it was nothing like that. Really. I wanted to.” 

Even with that reassurance, the sick feeling in Jen’s stomach doesn’t let up. “You _wanted_ to?” She repeats incredulously. “Since when? You never said you were into him.” 

“I wasn’t, really. I mean, I just never thought about it...but he’s cute, right?”

Jen calls up her vague mental image of Ian Isley, whose looks aren’t remotely noteworthy beyond the fact that he clearly dedicates too much time to his shoulder length, always-shiny brown hair. On the handful of occasions Jen’s seen in him the art studio, he always seems to be wearing shirts with an uncomfortably deep V-neck to show off his fucking chest hair. Oh, and he wears a stupid necklace with a shark’s tooth on it – Jen remembers that because she joked about it to Judy, said that guys who wear shark teeth jewelry think they’re just too fucking edgy for puka shells. 

“You don’t think he’s cute,” Judy answers her own question before Jen has to, probably reading the disgust on her face.

“Pretty sure we made fun of the guy,” Jen mutters.

 _“You_ did,” Judy counters. She’s smiling; Jen isn’t. 

“You _laughed_ _.”_ Jen sits up, abruptly. It doesn’t feel like she and Judy should be laying in bed, sharing a fucking pillow, during this conversation. “This is the fucking _two I’s to see the world_ guy, right?” 

“Yeah...I know it’s a little cheesy, but he really is that serious about art.”

“Is that why he wanted to fuck in the studio? He just got _so_ worked up over one of his tit paintings?”

“Well. No, um. Remember, I said he was working on the McDonald’s thing…” Judy looks up at her, eyes big and worried. “You think I shouldn’t have done it? Is it too slutty, having sex so close to where we have class?” 

Judy’s voice is completely deflated now, and this is probably some _best friend_ protocol that Jen is fucking up – she’s supposed to gush and giggle and request every disgusting detail. But instead, because Jen sucks at this, she’s making Judy feel like a slut.

Jen unclenches her jaw and sighs. _“_ _No_ _,_ that’s not what I’m saying. I just wouldn’t have thought, because he’s kinda, like…” She pauses, unable to come up with a tactful description of Ian. “He didn’t really talk to you, the whole time I was in the studio.” 

“Well, we’d already had a whole class together.”

“Yeah, but even when we left, you know...he didn’t say bye to you or anything,” Jen finishes lamely.

“Oh, I didn’t mind that,” Judy answers. “And I’m not counting on anything else happening, I know it might not have meant anything to him...but I still wanted to tell you, since we promised not to keep stuff from each other anymore.”

It’s probably sweet, the way Judy talks about their Christmas break agreement as though it’s a sacred commandment, but Jen’s brain is snagged on the words _to him_ _._ She can’t quite make eye contact until Judy reaches out, two fingers tugging on the sleeve of Jen’s sweater, imploring, “Lay back down.” 

“I’m not so cold anymore...just hungry.” Jen has to crawl over Judy’s legs to get up from the bed. “C’mon, let’s get food.” 

Judy gives an exaggerated shudder before throwing off the covers and following Jen out of the room and down to the dining hall, like it’s any other Thursday. 

+

Jen never asks for further details about Judy’s art studio _encounter_ with Ian, and Judy doesn’t bring it up again, either; by Saturday, the subject feels firmly and mercifully dead. They’d gone to a party last night thrown by some of Preston’s friends from UNY’s business school; while Matthew pranced around, basking in his _boyfriend_ role, Jen and Judy and Audrey camped out in one corner of the living room, getting drunk on Grey Goose vodka and the confidence that comes from being the coolest people at a party.

It had been a better night than Jen was expecting, but she’s glad to be staying in tonight, save for maybe a quick trip to Blockbuster when Judy gets off her lunch shift. 

She’s killing time in the dorm room, copying dates and events from her History of Dance textbook onto a stack of notecards while bouncing between _Real World_ reruns and some VH1 special on Madonna, the unfortunate best options of shitty Saturday afternoon television. 

When the phone rings, she almost doesn’t answer. Ninety percent of their phone calls are from Jen’s parents – Jen doesn’t particularly enjoy the weekly conversations, but more than that, she almost feels guilty talking to them without Judy there. They’ve been back at the dorm for nearly two months, and still Judy looks completely delighted every time Jen passes her the phone at her mother’s request, or when Maggie’s voice comes through on the answering machine with a cheerful, _Hi girls!_

So Jen considers ignoring the ringing phone so Judy gets to come home to such a message, but there’s at least a chance the caller is Matthew, trying to coax them out to another party, and if Jen doesn’t answer he’ll just come down from the tenth floor to bug her in person.

She mutes the television and leans off the side of her bed, grabbing the phone from the top of their minifridge. “Hello?” 

“Hiya, kid. Betcha thought I forgot, huh?” 

It’s a woman’s voice, raspy and unrecognizable, and the warm familiarity of her greeting throws Jen off. “Sorry, what?” 

“Thought about calling a few weeks ago, now that I’m settled, but I thought you know what? I’ll wait for her birthday. Give ya a nice surprise.” 

“I think you’ve got the wrong number, sorry,” Jen says, and she’s about to hang up the phone when the woman on the other end starts laughing. 

“You’re the _roommate_ _._ Sorry about that, thought you were Judy.” 

Jen stiffens, immediately realizing who this must be. “Judy’s not here.”

The woman doesn’t seem to hear her. “I’m Eleanor, Judy’s mom...you’re the New Yorker, right? Jessica?” 

“Jen,” she corrects flatly. “And Judy isn’t home right now.” 

“Have her give me a call when she gets back, wouldja hon?” 

“Okay,” Jen says, unable to resist adding, “She must already have your number, right?” 

If Eleanor recognizes the dig, she doesn’t show it. “Nah, this is a new one. You got a pen?” 

Jen copies the number down on one of her notecards and hangs up without responding to Eleanor’s _“_ Nice to sorta meet you.” Only when the call is over does she fully register the first thing Judy’s mother said, when she still thought she was talking to her daughter: she apparently thinks today is Judy’s birthday. 

Judy won’t be back for nearly an hour, and that gives Jen plenty of time to get nice and comfortable in her anger. She scrolls through her memory of everything Judy had said about her mom over Christmas break, then reminds herself of the awful, anxious twenty-four hours of knowing Judy was in California with no home to go to, stacking it all up against Eleanor’s casual, cheerful voice on the phone, not even a scrap of remorse after months of radio silence. 

She’s tempted to throw away the phone number and keep the message to herself, but Judy can tell something’s up as soon as she walks in the room.

“Hey! Has _your_ hangover gone away yet? Because mine stuck around for like half my shift…” Judy hangs her bag on the desk chair and looks up at Jen; that fast, her smile dims. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, fine. Just...” Jen hesitates for a final few seconds before saying, “Your mom called.” 

For a moment, Judy just looks startled, but then her eyes flare with a cautious hope that makes Jen look away. “Really?” 

“Yeah, here…” Jen retrieves the notecard from the back pages of her textbook and reluctantly hands it over. “She left a number.”

“When did she call?”

“Like an hour ago, maybe?” 

Judy smiles down at the card like it’s a winning lottery ticket; she’s already moving toward the phone, picking it up so the cord stretches to her bed, where she sits down and starts dialing.

Jen should probably offer to step out, go smoke a cigarette in the lounge to give Judy some privacy, but she says where she is, sitting on the edge of her bed with her arms crossed, textbook closed, and eyes pinned on Judy, not even feigning attention for anything else.

“Mom? Hi!” Judy’s face splits into a full blown grin. “How _are_ you?” There’s a pause. “Oh! It was actually Wednesday, but thank you! That’s so nice...mmmhmm...Jen, yeah.” Judy catches Jen’s eye and smiles. “She’s the best.”

There’s another pause, longer this time, before Judy says, “I’d tried calling back in October and then – oh, wow. Yeah, that’s what I figured must’ve – uh-huh...oh, no, it’s completely okay! I was just worried, but – oh, God, that does sound….yeah...mmhmm...when was that?”

After that, there isn’t much to Judy’s side of the conversation. For nearly half an hour she provides one or two syllable reactions, alternately sympathetic and impressed. Apparently her mother asks no questions that prompt Judy to talk about school, or New York, or Christmas break. She says nothing about herself the entire phone call. 

When she finally hangs up, Judy’s end of the conversation indicating that some sort of promise to talk again soon has been made, Jen can’t make herself wait more than two seconds before asking, “So what’d she want? Besides the belated happy birthday?” 

“She said she just moved into a new place and got a phone number set so we could finally catch up.”

“Catch you up on _her_ from the sound of it,” Jen points out. “Did she ask _anything_ about you?”

Judy’s smiling a little less now. “I...I think she mainly wanted to explain what happened last year...why she couldn’t get in touch.” 

“What _did_ happen?” 

“It was kind of a long story, but the building manager at our old place really started breathing down her neck, looking for an excuse to kick her out –”

Jen makes a soft, scoffing sound that Judy either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore.

“– so she decided to be safe she should probably start looking for a new place, and a friend of hers was moving to Nevada for a job and she ended up going with him.” 

“So, what, they don’t have phones in Nevada?” 

Judy visibly flinches, and Jen draws a slow, calming breath, trying to soften her tone. “Why didn’t you say anything about Christmas, Jude?” 

“I didn’t want to make her feel bad.” 

“Oh, fuck that, Judy, she _should_ feel bad!”

“But...remember, she didn’t know I was coming,” Judy argues weakly. 

“It doesn’t matter. God, it’s not even about Christmas, she didn’t bother to call you for two months _before_ Christmas. Just because she _moved_ _?_ You can’t tell me that whole time she never have had, like, fifty fucking cents to use a pay phone.”

Judy’s eyes are lowered now, aimed at the phone still cradled in her lap, and all at once guilt streaks through Jen, eclipsing her anger. Judy had been smiling when she got off the phone – the pinched, hurt look on her face is because of Jen, not her mother. 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Judy looks up. Her voice is quiet. “She’s trying. I really think she is. She was gone for a long time, you know? We didn’t see each other or even really get to talk for like five years when I lived with foster parents, and then it was less than a year before I moved here. I...I think it’s okay that she’s still not used to keeping in touch.”

Jen doesn’t think the fact that Judy’s mom went to prison, blamed her for it, and didn’t call during the entire sentence is a great argument in her favor, but she bites her tongue about it, only saying, “I get that. And I’m glad...that she’s trying.” 

Judy smiles again, _finally_ _,_ equal parts grateful and relieved.

+

  
  


Jen’s rarely conscious of the sheer predictability of their lives on campus until it fails her, and suddenly Tuesday evening is completely thrown off just because Judy is all of ten minutes late getting home after her painting class. 

Jen normally beats Judy back by half an hour after her choreography workshop, save for the days Judy stays after class to work and Jen meets her in Hudson. But her first major project was due today, so she should have nothing to stay late for. 

Ten minutes late stretches into fifteen, then twenty, then a full half hour; Jen’s hungry and vaguely irritated when Judy finally breezes in, just shy of forty-five minutes past her usual entrance. 

“Where have you _been_ _,_ I’m starving.” 

Judy ignores the question, grinning at Jen while one hand digs through her bag. “Guess what, I got us a treat for this weekend…” Her hand emerges, a tightly rolled joint held regally between two fingers. _“_ _Voila!”_

“Nice.” Jen nods in approval – with Judy no longer hanging out with the art crowd outside of the studio, they haven’t had weed yet this semester. “So, what, you were meeting with a new drug dealer?” 

“Ian gave it to me.” 

Jen’s teeth clench, but she keeps her expression neutral. “What, in class?” 

“No, I actually kinda went back with him to his place…” She trails off, lets the silence dangle, but when Jen says nothing to fill it, Judy clarifies, “We slept together.”

“Why?” Jen asks without thinking. Judy looks confused by the question, so Jen rolls her eyes and lightens her tone. “Like, was class super raunchy, got you guys in the mood, or what?”

Judy laughs a little. “No, we were just doing critiques, since our pieces were due -“

“Oh, how’d yours go?” 

“We didn’t get to it, we have to finish up on Thursday. I don’t mind, I was kinda nervous about it so it was nice to get to see how it works. Anyway. I actually liked talking about everyone’s work, but Ian thinks crit days are really boring, and he made this joke about wishing he was stoned for it, so I said I did, too, and when class ended he invited me back to his place to smoke. Which we did. The rest just kinda happened.” 

“Okay…” 

Judy’s still looking at her expectantly, like once again Jen doesn’t know her lines for this best friend role she’s supposed to be playing. She should probably be asking follow up questions, but Jen doesn’t actually want to know how it was, or how they left things, or what fucking Smiths song was playing while they did it. 

Instead she asks, “So are you still high?” 

“Just a little.” 

“Great, so you’re probably hungry.” Jen gets up from her bed and grabs her student ID; they go down to the dining hall and make no further mention Ian, or the fact that Judy got laid on a random Tuesday afternoon.

At lunch on Wednesday, Jen’s half afraid Judy will bring it up to Audrey and Matthew, but Matthew dominating the conversation to talk about _Rent_ is a good thing, for once. He saw the show two weeks ago with Preston and hasn’t shut up about how it “literally changed his life” — from what Jen can tell, the big change is a new inability to talk about _literally_ any other subject. On his insistence, they’re all going to see it on Saturday night, and Matthew is apparently unfamiliar with the concept of overhyping.

“Is Preston coming Saturday?” Judy asks at one point, a more gentle attempt at derailing Matthew’s gushing theater review than Audrey’s intermittent groans. 

Matthew’s face sours at the mention of his boyfriend. _“_ _Nope_ _._ He doesn’t want to for some reason.” 

Audrey rolls her eyes. “A real mystery...couldn’t _possibly_ be because he’s already gone with you twice in two weeks.” 

“You went _again_ _?”_ Jen says, swapping an incredulous look with Judy.

“You’ll understand on Saturday,” Matthew says.

Judy smiles at him. “Hey, remind me the name of the place we’re going after the show?”

“The Life Cafe,” Matthew answers immediately. 

“Oh my God, fuck _that_ _.”_ Audrey says, looking at Jen for back up. “We don’t want to go to a _cafe_ at, like, midnight on a Saturday. Let’s just go to a bar.” 

“But the Life is _in_ the actual show...I want us to have the whole immersive experience,” Matthew insists. “And they have alcohol there. They _for sure_ have _wine and beer.”_ Matthew chuckles as if he’s just made a joke, then adds, “That’s from — “

Audrey covers his mouth with her hand, efficiently cutting him off. “It’s not even close to the Nederlander. That’s a whole other cab ride. Sorry, we’re going to Rook’s. It has liquor, and it’s basically across the street.” Audrey raises her eyebrows and looks between Jen and Judy. “Cool?”

Judy glances sympathetically at Matthew, but Jen lifts her water glass in a mock toast. “You had me at liquor.” 

Audrey seems to take that as an agreement from both of them; she nods crisply and removes her hand from Matthew’s face, their Saturday plans settled. 

Thursday Jen wakes up to find a Post-It stuck on the screen of her alarm clock. Judy, now sleeping soundly on the other side of the room, must have stuck it there when she got home from her shift last night, letting her know she’s staying in the studio after class to develop a roll of film. Jen plucks the note off her clock, smothering a smile; this is Judy’s usual method of inviting Jen to meet her in the studio after classes and hang out until dinner – which means Judy must not be anticipating another afternoon tryst with Ian.

The photo lab is on a different floor than the studio where Judy has her painting class, so there’s no reason any other painting students should have migrated down, so it’s an unpleasant surprise when Ian is the first person Jen sees when she walks in. Judy, at least, isn’t with him; he’s leaning on a counter, carrying on a conversation with two other girls – of course, he seems to be doing most of the talking. 

Jen rolls her eyes and ignores them, crossing the room to the table closest to the darkroom door. Hanging out with Judy when she has to develop film usually means keeping her company until the darkroom is free, but since she’s nowhere in sight and the red bulb above the door is lit up, warning students against opening the door and letting light in, it’s safe to assume she’s already inside developing. 

Perched on the table, feet planted on a chair, and her back to Ian and his audience, Jen pulls out her Walkman, letting her headphones drown out the conversation of two guys pouring over a spread of photographs at a nearby table. She waits for almost twenty minutes before the red light bulb stops glowing, the door beneath it finally swinging open.

Judy smiles when she sees Jen, but it lasts for maybe three seconds before her eyes widen in apparent guilt. “Shit, I’m sorry, have you been waiting long? I came down right after class, I didn’t expect the room to be free.”

“It’s cool.” Over Judy’s shoulder, Jen sees the girls Ian was talking to go into the darkroom, the bulb glowing red again. She doesn’t check to see if Ian is still here. 

Judy turns at the sound of the door closing. “Oh, shoot, I wanted to show you the prints I have drying...that one of you on the subway platform came out _so_ cool.” 

“Your fucking paparazzi shot, you mean?” Jen smirks. 

“Exactly. I’m selling it to People Magazine. Or Us Weekly...depends on the outcome of a _very_ intense bidding war.” 

“Go with People, it’s classier.” Jen hops off the table, hanging her dance bag over her shoulder. “How’d your critique go? They get to you today?”

“Yeah, we’re totally finished now. It went pretty well, I think! Most people seemed to like it, and any notes were – “

“She’s being modest.” 

Jen stiffens as Ian appears beside them, flashing Judy a quick grin before addressing Jen. 

“Professor Talenti was obsessed with her painting...she’s officially teacher’s pet. Not surprised.” He lets his gaze flick back to Judy. “She’s crazy talented.”

“I know.” Jen doesn’t like how defensive she sounds – but she also doesn’t like this guy trying to tell _her_ something about Judy. 

Judy, though, is blushing, and smiling harder than she was a couple seconds ago. “Ian, have you met Jen already?”

“Yeah,” Jen says immediately, because even though they were never formally introduced she’d like to keep the interaction as brief as possible.

But Ian’s shaking his head, ignoring her response to say, “Not officially, but I’ve seen you around. You in Jude’s photography class?” 

Jen narrows her eyes, bristling at the shortening of Judy’s name. 

Oblivious, Judy answers for her, “Oh, no, she’s in the dance program.” 

“Hence the _leotard_ _,”_ Jen says dryly.

“Also my roommate,” Judy adds, smiling at Jen when she says it. 

Jen decides they must not have talked very much, if Judy’s never even mentioned her to Ian. Not that she expects Judy to be talking about her all the time, but _roommates_ are a pretty basic topic of conversation in college, and Jen’s been in the studio at the same time as Ian at least twice. 

Ian nods at her in acknowledgement. “Hey.” 

Jen doesn’t answer. She shifts her dance bag from one shoulder to the other, exhaling an impatient sigh.

Judy misses the cue. She’s smiling up at Ian. “What are you working on?” 

“Nothing at the moment. Well. Nothing _here_ _,_ I’ve always got at least a dozen pieces in progress...some back in the apartment, some still percolating…” Ian taps a finger to his own temple. “...up here.” 

Jen manages, with great effort, to refrain from rolling her eyes; not that it matters, neither of them are paying her any attention.

“Think I’m just hanging around out of habit. Spent so many hours here working on _Smolden Arches_ it just feels like home.” 

He delivers the last few words in an exaggerated, lofty tone, and Judy giggles. This time, Jen _does_ roll her eyes, seconds before Judy turns to her and helpfully explains, _“_ _Smolden Arches_ is the title of Ian’s painting for class.” 

Jen’s eyebrows arch. “Is _smolden_ even a word?”

Ian gives her an indulgent smile. “It’s a form of _smolder.”_

“Is it, though?” 

“Ian got really good feedback on it,” Judy says quickly. “The best in class.” 

Ian nudges Judy’s arm with his elbow. “No, that would be _you_ _,_ little miss _shades of Vermeer_.”

Judy’s practically beaming up at him, basking in the spotlight of Ian’s praise, and Jen really doesn’t want a front row seat to this.

“Hey, I’m gonna go,” she says, a little louder than necessary. 

“Oh!” Judy actually tears her gaze away from Ian, shooting Jen an apologetic look. “Right, sorry...I just gotta grab my coat, then I’m good to go.” 

The tight coil of Jen’s stomach loosens a little; she hadn’t expected Judy to leave with her. 

Judy shoots Ian a quick smile before crossing the room to get her backpack and coat, and Jen heads for the door, hovering with a deliberate air of impatience that keeps Judy from lingering for further conversation. She waits until they’ve taken the elevator and left the building, getting some safe distance between Judy and Ian before blurting out, “So, was he waiting for you, or are you guys done with that whole thing?” 

“Who, Ian?” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “Who else would I be talking about?” 

“I don’t think he was waiting for me,” Judy says. “We didn’t have plans or anything.” 

“Did you have _plans_ the first time you went home with him?”

“Well, no, but on Tuesday he invited me over before class was even done. I’m pretty sure he would have said something if he wanted to, you know... _hang out_ again.”

Jen nods, satisfied that Judy doesn’t sound particularly disappointed about that, until Judy adds, “I did invite him to come out with us on Saturday, though.” 

“What?” Jen gives her a startled look. “We’re seeing _Rent_ on Saturday.” 

“No, I know. I just meant the bar after...I asked Matthew what time the show’s over, so I could say what time we’d definitely be at Rook’s. He said he’s gonna try to make it.” 

Judy smiles, looking far too thrilled for such a lukewarm commitment, and Jen’s stomach swoops low. 

“So you like him,” she says flatly. 

“Yeah, of course,” Judy says. She sounds surprised by the question. 

Jen should have fucking known that Judy’s the type who can’t sleep with a guy without developing feelings for him, probably instantly. It’s an unkind thought, but an accurate one: Judy clearly didn’t give a shit about the guy until he propositioned her in a supply closet. 

“But I mean...do you just want to keep hooking up with him, or, you know.” Jen suppresses a grimace; she doesn’t want to hear much more about this, but she doesn’t like not knowing what Judy’s thinking. “Do you want to actually _date_ him?”

“Oh!” Judy smiles, close lipped and shy, pink tinging her cheeks as if being asked what she wants is embarrassing. “Well...it _would_ be really nice. To have a boyfriend, I mean.” 

Jen frowns. That isn’t what she asked, she never used that word, but before she can find grounds for protest, Judy continues, “But I have no idea if that’s something he’d want, with me. I definitely don’t want to put any pressure on him...but if he wants to come hang out on Saturday, that’s maybe a good sign, right?” 

Jen makes a noncommittal humming noise that Judy can probably interpret as agreement – it’s the closest Jen’s going to offer. 

This maybe shouldn’t bother her so much: she barely knows Ian, but she does know his type. She just doesn’t like that Judy is apparently the kind of girl who falls for his bullshit. 

That’s all this is, the sole reason for the heat in her throat and the pit in her stomach. 

  
  


+

It’s nearly midnight on Saturday when they leave the Nederlander Theater, and Jen and Judy spend the four minute walk to Rook’s Castle swapping covert, amused looks while Matthew and Audrey have a possibly friendship-ending argument because Audrey _doesn’t see the point_ of shows without dancing.

“There’s a _tango_ _!”_ Matthew snaps at Audrey as they all hand fake IDs to the bouncer at Rook’s. _"Tango_ is literally in the title!” 

Audrey just scowls at that lukewarm defense, and the argument has to pause while they weave through the crowd to get drinks. Jen manages to snag a few inches of bar space; Judy’s got a hand on the back of her jacket, and Jen twists around to ask her, “Amaretto sour?” 

Judy smiles, nodding in confirmation – it’s been her go-to at bars the last few weekends, but Jen wanted to be sure. The crowd presses tighter around them, and Judy’s practically draped on Jen’s back by the time she gets their drinks.

Jen manages to catch Audrey’s eye – she’s beside Matthew, both trying to shoulder in to order at the other corner of the bar – and inclines her head in the direction of the main room of the bar.

“I just realized something,” Judy says, accepting her drink as they start to circle the place, looking for a free table or, at the very least, space to stand without someone else’s elbow in their back. “I finally have a favorite Broadway show besides _Cats."_

“Thank God.” Jen smirks. “But you should still tell Matthew you can’t decide which you liked better.” 

Judy laughs. “No way, I’m the only one here he currently wants to stay friends with.” 

“I _said_ I really liked it!” Jen repeats for maybe the seventh time since intermission, fourth since leaving the theater. She means it, too; the whole show had felt unexpected, and exciting, with the kind of songs that followed you out of the theater – Jen’s mom had said that to her once, years and years ago, about some Sondheim show Jen had still been too young to see herself. Jen hasn’t thought about the description in years, but it popped into her head tonight, as soon as they stepped out of the lobby and into the cold city air. 

But Jen had also admitted – at Audrey’s prompting – that yes, she’s always going to prefer the big spectacle musicals, the kind with dancing that gets stuck in her head the same as songs. 

Jen takes a sip of her vodka soda. Judy isn’t looking at her, instead scanning the packed crowd, gaze aimed in the direction of the entrance. Jen’s about to remind her that Audrey and Matthew are in the opposite direction at the bar, when she catches herself on the realization that Judy’s looking for Ian.

Jen scowls and throws back a third of her drink in one sip. It’s annoying, that Ian could still intrude on their plans this late in the day: they’ve been off campus for hours, first at a restaurant and then at the theater – what’s the fucking _point_ of inviting some guy none of them knows for these last few hours of drinking? Why does Judy suddenly need her two time fuck buddy to be part of all weekend plans? 

It’s a relief when Audrey and Matthew finally reach them, Matthew immediately distracting Judy from her hopeful search by complaining about the crowded bar – “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d just gone to Life Cafe!” – and then launching into a lecture about Puccini’s _La Boheme_ that only Judy is nice enough to pay full attention to. 

They’re on their second round of drinks and barely audible conversation when they get lucky, catching a group just as they’re leaving a U-shaped booth set against the wall. Matthew practically leaps into the seat to claim it before another group; Judy slides in after him while Jen and Audrey return to the bar, their turn to get another round.

When they get back, sliding in on opposite sides of the booth and passing Matthew his gin and tonic and Judy yet another amaretto sour, Matthew makes a point to give them both haughty looks and draping his arm around Judy’s shoulders. “Sad announcement. After tonight I am forced to conclude that out of all of you, Judy is the only one with a soul.” 

Jen rolls her eyes, repeating for the eighth time now, “I _liked_ it.” 

“I did not,” Audrey reminds them unnecessarily. 

Matthew ignores her and tells Jen, “But you weren’t _moved_ by it.” 

Jen catches Judy’s eye and smirks. “What, so she has a _soul_ because she cried at half the songs? That doesn’t mean anything, she cried watching _Pretty Woman – “_

“Lots of people cry at rom-coms,” Matthew says in a defensive tone that suggests he’s included in _lots of people ._

“Exactly,” Judy says, with a smug look at Jen. “Those ladies at the store are so mean to her!” 

Matthew’s brow furrows. “Well. I’m not sure lots of people cried at _that_ part…” 

“She also cried at _Big – “_

“His mom doesn’t recognize him!”

 _“– and_ fucking _Back to the Future III."_

Judy mocks glares at her. “It was sad that the old scientist guy stayed in the past...he and Michael J. Fox had been best friends for so long!”

Jen picks the thin black straw out of her drink and points it at Judy. _“_ _You_ didn’t know that, you didn’t see the first two! Or even the first half of that one.” 

Audrey makes a face. “Why were you guys watching only the second half of _Back to the Future III? ”_

Jen and Judy answer at the same time:

“We were drunk.” 

“It was playing on TNT.” 

“Also, it was like two am,” Jen adds. 

Matthew shakes his head. “Y’all’s dorm always sounds like such a weird place.”

Judy laughs, then grins at Jen like that’s something to be proud of, and Jen’s feeling the alcohol by now, a warm, sentimental swarm in her chest. Lately, she’s come to a surprising enjoyment of this, the easy unit the four of them have formed. In a weird way, being around Audrey and Matthew means Jen and Judy are constantly showing off their closeness, without even trying; they can tease each other in a way the others don’t, and nearly every conversation manages to prove that they know each other best. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, just a few seconds while everyone accidentally coordinates a sip of their drinks, and then Matthew draws a breath and says, “So, you know the part when Collins and – “

 _“Nope,”_ Audrey cuts him off sharply. “You’re done. We have _got_ to be allowed to change the goddamn subject by this point.” She pointedly leans around Matthew to make eye contact with Judy. “So, what’s the deal with this guy who’s coming?”

Jen’s contentment and sense of camaraderie dissolves instantly, and instead she starts fantasizing about kicking Audrey, hard, in the shin. 

Jen tunes out while Judy explains her brief history with Ian, the subject matter apparently enough to derail Matthew’s pouting over the subject change, given that he starts singing half-remembered words to “Afternoon Delight” after Judy tells them about going back to Ian’s after class Tuesday. 

“It doesn’t seem like he’s coming tonight,” Judy finishes regretfully, when they’re all caught up. “It’s already after one, and I told him midnight. But it’s fine, he didn’t say he was coming for sure.” 

“Midnight’s a late start,” Audrey tells her.

“He probably didn’t realize it was kinda far from campus,” Matthew adds reassuringly. 

Judy’s eyes perk up a little, but she still turns to Jen with a hopeful expression, like she needs Jen to add to the chorus of reassurance. 

Jen acquiesces with a small shrug. “Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

Judy’s face relaxes, and Jen almost feels guilty about how relieved she is that Ian’s already proving her right. 

+

Both the guilt and relief stick around, flaring to life again on Tuesday when Judy gets home from class at her usual time, her mood low as she admits that Ian didn’t say much to her during class. 

“I don’t know, I think he might just be over it.” Judy sits down on her bed, reaching automatically for a clump of yarn, some part of which is an unfinished scarf, getting her hands absently occupied with the knitting needles before she adds, “I maybe shouldn’t have invited him to the bar…”

Jen rolls her eyes. “What, he can invite you back to his bedroom but you can’t invite him to a fucking bar?” 

Judy doesn’t answer.

“Did he even say anything to you about not showing up on Saturday?” 

“No.”

“See, that’s fuckin’ _rude_ ,” Jen says, relishing the chance to say exactly what she thinks about the asshole. 

Judy gives her a reproachful look. “It’s not that bad...he never said he was for sure coming, so it isn’t like he stood me up.” 

“Oh, come _on_ _,_ Jude.” Jen’s voice is scornful. “It’s just basic fucking manners to say _oh_ _hey, sorry I couldn’t make it_ _.”_

Judy doesn’t respond; her eyes are downcast, her hands suddenly slowing their work.

Jen softens her voice. “Hey.” She waits until Judy looks up at her. “Forget him. Seriously. We are _three_ days from freedom, okay? And you can’t let some asshole in a _shark tooth_ necklace ruin your spring break.” 

That coaxes a grin from Judy. “Oh, don’t worry, nothing is going to ruin that. I’m too excited.” The knitting needles in her hands start moving again. “I’m just worried I won’t finish this before we go....I wanted it to be ready to give to your mom.” 

For a moment, Jen watches Judy knit with renewed urgency, twisting white yarn amid different shades of blue – blue is her mom’s favorite color, and of course Judy somehow picked up on that over winter break. 

“You know, if you need more time, it’s not like we have to head to Brooklyn the second classes are over Friday. We’ve got all next week, so. There’s really no rush.” Jen arches her eyebrows and repeats, _“_ _Really_ _.”_

Jen’s mother had called a few weeks ago about spring break, making sure Judy knows she’s invited to spend it with them. Since that phone call, Jen’s been expecting a negotiation, hoping she can talk Judy into staying only a few nights in Brooklyn, spend the bulk of their week off in the emptied out dorm.

By Thursday, though, Jen’s changed her mind. 

After Judy’s over an hour late getting home, eventually bursting into their room giddy and relieved because Ian brought her back to his place after class was over, and because he told her he’d missed her, and that she was _fucking gorgeous_ _,_ and asked if anyone had ever drawn her, or painted her, and they’d joked about him doing a portrait, turning it in as a class assignment, scandalizing their professor, apparently they really _talked_ this time, he made her laugh and he kissed her again once they were dressed, right before she left, something that apparently hadn’t happened last time…

After Judy tells her all that, Jen starts to see the appeal of staying away from campus, for as long as they’re allowed. 

+

They end up going back to Brooklyn on Saturday evening, after Judy finishes her lunch shift at the restaurant – she got someone to cover her on Monday night, but she’ll have to go back into the city for work on Wednesday. 

Jen makes fun of her for knitting on the subway, but she’s _so_ close to finishing Maggie’s scarf. 

“You’re on the train with a suitcase and you’re making clothes by hand. Literally everyone here probably thinks you just arrived from Kansas. Or, like, from the little house on the prairie.”

“I’m pretty sure _Little House in the Prairie_ actually is set in Kansas. The book, not the show.” 

“Of _course_ you know that.” Jen smirks, her fingers lightly flicking the mint green material of Judy’s peasant skirt. “You’re dressed like fucking Laura Ingalls Wilder.” 

Judy grins. “Maybe my next knitting project should be a bonnet.” 

“Go for it, at least it’s smaller...you won’t need over two months to finish.” 

“You _know_ the scarf only took so long because I had to start over!”

Eventually, they emerge from the subway station and start walking toward Jen’s neighborhood with their week’s worth of luggage. The sky is a cotton candy blend of pink and blue overhead, and even with the sun setting it feels more like spring than winter.

When they get close enough to see Jen’s house, Judy quickens her pace without meaning to and ends up beating Jen to the front door by a few strides. Her hand is halfway to knocking before she checks the instinct, noticing Jen’s hand in her purse just before it emerges with keys.

Jen opens the door and Judy follows her into the warmth of the living room. Yogi is the only one there, sitting almost formally on the couch before he jumps down and trots over, quivering with excitement, to yip and circle Judy’s ankles. 

She reaches down and scoops the dog into her arms, stroking the velvet soft fur of his ears and cooing greetings while Jen gives Yogi a single, indulgent scratch under the chin. “Guess my dad isn’t here.” 

Jen tosses her bags behind Hank’s recliner, then take Judy’s suitcase and sets it beside them. Judy’s eyes jump above the living room fireplace, the portrait of Jen now framed and hanging there, and at the same moment Jen raises her voice to yell, “Mom? We’re home!” 

Just like that, Judy’s throat narrows; it’s something about the ease of Jen’s voice, stringing _we_ together with _home_ , like it belongs to both of them. Her gaze is still fixed on the painting when Maggie’s voice floats down the stairs, promising she’ll be right there, and Judy’s smiling so hard her eyes tear over, happy in a way that feels wild and lively, like wings fluttering in her chest. 

Jen sits down sideways in her dad’s recliner, legs draped over the armrest, and looks up at her, squinting in concern. “You alright?” 

Judy nods, emphatic. “I just...I really love your house.” 

Jen studies her for a few seconds, then shifts her eyes pointedly to the painting, lips curving into a small grin. “They _have_ made some cool decor changes.” 

Judy laughs, a soft, breathless sound. “It’s so nice that they framed it.”

Jen opens her mouth to answer, but then her expression dims as she glances at something over Judy’s shoulder. 

Judy turns around to see Maggie coming down the stairs, beaming at them. Judy grins back; she’s in jeans and a hot pink T-shirt with the logo of a Breast Cancer Awareness 5k, and it’s the first time Judy’s seen her without a headscarf on – even in that last week of winter break, when she was feeling ill after chemo, she never emerged from the bedroom without her head covered.

“You can see I really dressed up for you girls,” Maggie says wryly.

“You look great!” Judy assures her, shifting Yogi to one arm and accepting the first hug, since Jen is still draped over the seat of the recliner. “Sorry if I smell like garlic bread, I didn’t wash my hair after work.”

“Uh-oh, that could be dangerous.” Maggie pulls away with a teasing grin. “I remember that bread from Valentine’s Day...Hank’s picking up dinner at Ayara, but I’ll have to send him right back out if you get me craving Italian food.” 

“Ooh, that sounds so good, though,” Judy says earnestly. It’s the Thai restaurant she’d chosen for dinner, that first night over Christmas break when Maggie and Hank let her pick.

Maggie turns her attention to Jen, looking archly down at her reclining daughter. “You already too comfortable to get up and say hello?” 

“Yep,” Jen says flippantly, but she’s already unfolding herself from the chair, standing up to dutifully hug her mom. 

Maggie tells them Hank should be back with food any minute, and Judy eagerly volunteers to set the table, Jen sighing but trailing her into the kitchen to help, while Maggie goes into her bedroom. She reappears in the kitchen a minute later, having put on a navy headscarf with a white bandana pattern; Judy really hopes Maggie doesn’t feel pressured to wear one at home just because she’s here. 

From the living room, Yogi starts barking, excited and high pitched, and Maggie smiles at Judy, shaking her head in exasperation. "I swear to God, that dog's at a point where he hears Hank's car on the street."

Judy grins back. "He's very impressive." 

+

As soon as they start eating, her mom asks about midterms, and Jen deflects by pointing out that Judy takes more midterms than she does – even Judy’s photography class had a written test, and within a minute that’s spun into a larger discussion, Judy gushing about the class while Maggie asks for every detail. 

Jen sort of appreciates the way her mom talks to Judy – it’d probably be embarrassing if it was anyone else, like if her mother had grilled Nora or Lydia or Scott about any subject they mentioned in her presence. But the thing is, Maggie talks to Judy the way Judy talks to other people, all patient interest and bottomless enthusiasm. 

Jen can’t help comparing it to Judy’s phone calls with her own mother: there have been a few, the last few weeks, though Judy’s been the one to call since Eleanor’s belated birthday wishes. Based on the half of the conversation Jen overhears, Judy’s mom still hasn’t expressed the slightest interest in her life. 

So Jen is content to quietly eat her dinner while Judy recaps half a semester’s worth of photography assignments to the captive audience of Jen’s parents – the fact that it keeps the conversation far away from the less than ideal C- on her Weather and Climate midterm is just a bonus. 

“We have to shoot one full roll of film every week no matter what,” Judy is explaining. “And if we have a more specific assignment due, that has to be completely separate...the weekly roll is supposed to be completely unprompted, just getting us in the habit of finding shots in our day to day lives.” 

Jen’s mom has been providing most of the follow up questions, but suddenly her dad asks, “Do they provide the film or is that somethin’ you gotta buy yourself?” 

“We buy the film,” Judy says. 

Hank shakes his head in disgust. “Much as that school costs, you kids shouldn’t be paying for your own supplies. It’s the same with Jen’s shoes that apparently need replacing every damn month…”

Jen groans, years past having the patience to explain pointe shoe wear and tear to her father. _“_ _Okay_ _,_ Dad, it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it.” 

“You can ask those crooks at your school how they expect you to pay for things until _they_ do their job and teach you to make money out there, dancin’ or paintin’ or whatever.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll just tell Madame Lowry she’s a crook who should be buying the whole class shoes. That’d go _great_ for me.” Jen rolls her eyes at Judy, who just smiles like she appreciates the concern. 

“The art department does at least have cameras we could rent for the full semester....but I’ll kind of miss having it once the class is over.” Judy looks at Jen and grins, adding, _“_ _Jen_ won’t, though.”

“It’s like living with a wildlife photographer...as the wildlife.” 

Jen’s parents laugh, and so does Judy, even though she’s used that line before, to tease her in front of Audrey and Matthew. Jen smirks, then adds in a long-suffering tone, “I’ve pretty much gotten used to it.”

That earns her a skeptical look from her mom. “Well, honey, you’ve never been what I’d call camera shy.”

“Y’know, Jude, if Jenny’s gonna complain about it, you’d have a much more willing subject in Yogi. Wouldn’t mind a nice sized portrait...” Grinning, Jen’s dad winks at her from across the table. “Maybe hang it over the fireplace?” 

Judy glances sideways at Jen, like she needs to check for amusement before laughing at Hank’s joke. “I _do_ still have to shoot a full roll this week...I can definitely try to get some shots of Yogi. And of you guys, too…only if you don’t mind!” 

“Oh, _they_ get a choice,” Jen snarks over her parents immediate agreement. 

Judy gives her a pointed look. “I also want to _finally_ get some shots of you dancing.” To Jen’s parents, she explains, “She won’t let me come to the studio at school.” 

_“ _Y_ eah_, cause other people are in there. I probably shouldn’t show up with my own personal paparazzi until, like, at _least_ sophomore year.”

Judy’s smile tilts. “Unless we go at three a.m. again.”

Jen flares her eyes at Judy, admonishing, the second before her dad, predictably, asks, “And _what_ were you doing in the dance studio at three a.m.?”

“Rehearsing,” Jen says innocently. Judy’s face is flushed, and she’s looking at Jen with apologetic horror, like she thinks Hank will soon guess exactly how stoned they were. 

Jen’s mom pats him sympathetically on the arm. “Honey, I think we’ve agreed we’re better off not knowing _everything_ when it comes to nights and weekends.”

Her dad has his stern, lecturing face on, and he makes eye contact with both Jen and Judy while he says, “I just want both you girls to _be aware_ that even though you might feel fine being out late as long you’re on campus...you’re still _in the city ._ Three in the morning ain’t magically safer just because you’re technically at _school_.” 

_“Okay,_ Dad. Why do you think I made Judy go with me to the studio that late? Buddy system.” 

Hank squints at her, skeptical, and he seems ready to gear up for safety lecture, part two, but Jen’s mother smoothly changes the subject, “Speaking of dance studios, Jen, I heard from Ms. Bryant last week.” For Judy’s benefit, she explains, “Jen’s old dance teacher.” 

“What do you mean you _heard_ from her? What’d she want?” 

“Oh, she still calls every once and awhile to check in, see if we need anything,” Maggie says lightly. “And ask about you, of course...I told her you’d be home some next week for your break, and she said to send you by the studio some afternoon. She wants to hear about school.” 

“Did you tell her I’d go?” Jen asks, frowning. She’d probably given Ms. Bryant an icier farewell than she deserved after that final recital, still smarting over her Juilliard rejection and her teacher’s utter lack of surprise about it.

“No, all I said was that I’d pass along the message,” Maggie answers. “But I _do_ think it’d be nice for you to go by, maybe say hello to some of the younger girls if there’s a class going on…”

“Jen’s like a rock star to those kids,” Hank confides to Judy.

“A rock star dancer?” Judy repeats, grinning. 

“Swear I even saw some of the little girls asking for her autographs on their recital programs.” 

Jen nods, confirming it. “Yeah, kids are dumb.” 

Judy nudges Jen’s foot with her own under the table. “Oh, c’mon, that’s adorable.”

Jen’s mom winks at Judy like they’re co-conspirators. “I bet Judy would get a kick out of seeing the studio.” She pauses, then adds with a smirk, “In daylight hours.” 

“I’d love to go,” Judy confirms. “I could maybe even take some pictures if your teacher’s okay with it.” 

“I’m sure she would be,” Maggie answers before Jen can. “Ms. Bryant encourages all forms of artistic expression.” 

Jen rolls her eyes.

“Remember, Jen, when she let Mallory Dylan's older sister make the costumes for one of your group numbers? She was applying to study fashion design, and she needed samples for a portfolio.” 

“Yeah, and those costumes _sucked_ _._ No wonder she didn’t get in anywhere.” 

Jen’s dad frowns. “Was that the skimpy number that looked like a dominatrix’s bikini?”

Jen groans while Judy tries unsuccessfully to stifle a burst of laughter. _“Dad._ Gross.” 

“No, babe, it was the coral outfit, remember.” Maggie’s lips twitch. “With the _feathers.”_

 _“Anyway,”_ Jen says loudly, wanting to cut off any more fatherly commentary on her past dance costumes. “We could maybe go by the studio on Thursday, when she does the under twelves.” 

Across the table, her parents exchange a surprised look. 

“Thursday?” Maggie repeats. “We’re getting you for that long?”

Judy, too, turns to look at Jen, expectant and hopeful. It makes Jen feel shitty, because any other break, she’d be rushing back to campus as soon as she could get away with, never mind that Judy obviously loves being here, and that Jen’s parents love having them.

She just shrugs, keeping her voice casual. “Yeah, we might as well stick around the whole week. It’s not like there’s anything going on at the dorms.” 

Jen can’t decide who looks happier about the news, Judy or her mom. 

Later, after they’ve eaten and cleared the table, Jen and Judy grab their bags to take to her room; as soon as they’re on the stairs, out of earshot of Jen’s parents, Judy says in a low voice, “I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to tell your parents we were in the dance studio so late that time…”

Jen half laughs. “It’s fine, it’s not like they’ll automatically guess we were stoned at the time. They’ve gotta know I do stuff like that, anyway...we’ve just got a kind of don’t ask, don’t tell thing going on.” 

“Okay...I still feel bad, though, making your dad worry.” 

Jen rolls her eyes as she opens the door to her bedroom. “God, don’t feel bad about _that_ . He _looks_ for shit to worry about, there’s nothing we can do about it. Like, when he finds out what time you get off work Wednesday, no way he’s going to let you take the train back here that late.”

Judy looks startled at that. “He won’t _let_ me?”

“Nope, he’ll probably send me with the car to pick you up...and then he’ll be worried about me _driving_ so late.” Jen tosses her dance bag onto her desk chair and makes a face. “ _He’s_ the one who grew up here, my grandparents let him take the train alone before he was in the fucking middle school. It’s just because we’re girls that he has to make everything a huge deal.” 

Jen turns around to find Judy sitting on the edge of her bed, regarding her with an amused, knowing expression. 

“What?”

“Just...that kinda reminds me of you.” 

_“What?_ I don’t do that.” 

“Okay, but you definitely do. You gave me a _lot_ of safety tips for getting around the city – “

“Only _after_ you got mugged by someone’s fucking grandma.” 

“And remember that time I stayed over at Andrew’s place, after work?”

Jen glares at her. “You mean when you just _didn’t come home_ _?_ I think worry would be any reasonable person’s response.”

 _“Okay_ _,_ I’m sorry,” Judy says, but she’s still sort of smirking. “I just think it’s sweet. Of you _and_ your dad.” 

Jen makes a face, not dignifying the comparison with further discussion. Judy seems to take the hint; she grabs for the remote control on Jen’s bedside table and turns on the TV. “So, should we watch our shows, or would we rather pick a movie?” 

“The age old question,” Jen deadpans with a slight grin – it _had_ been their biggest nightly decision of winter break. 

“It _is_ Saturday night...and we _do_ have cocktail supplies,” Judy points out, referring to the bottle of sickly sweet amaretto they’d screwed tightly shut and hidden in her suitcase. 

“So you’re saying we should class it up with a movie?” 

They change into the clothes they sleep in – Jen’s got the Alanis T-shirt tonight – and return downstairs to peruse the shelf of VHS’s in the living room. They’d taken a full bag of videos back to the dorm after Christmas, so the choices here are limited to Jen’s childhood favorites and movies her parents like a lot. 

They eventually settle on _The Princess Bride,_ but Jen makes it clear they need to go to Blockbuster tomorrow. 

Jen goes to the kitchen and grabs two ginger ales as mixers for the amaretto; her parents’ bedroom door is open, so she slows down in the hallway to say goodnight. Her mom tells her she just put fresh sheets on Jen’s bed – she doesn’t mention the guest room. 

Back upstairs, Jen slips into the shared bathroom and opens the other door, getting a look at the other bedroom. The comforter is barely visible in piles of their thickest winter clothes, clearly mid-transition into storage and left on the bed with confidence that no guest would be sleeping in it.

+

  
  


The days of spring break drift by, uneventful and easy. They fall back into their routines: Judy joining Jen for work outs in the mornings, Jen largely ignoring her mom and Judy’s soap opera and knitting sessions until lunch. They do venture out on Monday afternoon, returning to a few favorite stores and coffee shops, but without the novelty of snow, wandering aimlessly around Brooklyn doesn’t feel like a daily necessity. So they’re lazier this break, moving between Jen’s bedroom and the living room, a television or music on wherever they are. 

Jen’s dad is working all week, but her mom seems glad to have the company. Jen’s just relieved to find out they’re a week too early for her mom’s next chemo appointment; she doesn’t ask, but Judy does, one day over lunch, smoothly bringing it up by asking how Bonnie and Paul are doing – apparently Paul is in remission, but Bonnie and Jen’s mother are still knitting away in the oncology ward every third Friday. Just not this week.

Judy finishes the scarf on Tuesday and surprises Maggie with the reveal that it’s for her, gifted with multiple apologies that she didn’t finish in time for true scarf appropriate weather. They then spend half an hour going through Judy’s knitting book before mutually deciding on a beginner friendly hat pattern for Judy’s next project, which then leads to a spirited discussion about colors. 

The whole thing is so boring Jen actually studies, stretched out on her half of the couch with her History of Dance textbook while her mother and Judy get back to actively knitting and watching _Days of Our Lives_ – as far as Jen knows, Judy has been keeping up since Christmas break, but she easily slips back into the role of Maggie’s co-commentator, most of the discussion centered around their mutual hatred of Kristen Blake. 

When the episode ends, Judy carefully puts aside her knitting and asks if she can use the phone. Maggie replies that she doesn’t have to ask at the same time Jen narrows her eyes at Judy and blurts out an almost accusatory, “What for?”

“I was just gonna try my mom...I told her I wouldn’t be at the dorm most of the week, but I’d still call.” 

With Jen’s mom’s repeated reassurance that she can use any phone, any time, Judy trots off to the kitchen. 

Right away, Maggie turns to Jen, no longer hiding her surprise. “Talking to her mom now?”

“Yeah, she first called around Judy’s birthday.” Jen’s voice sours. _“_ _After_ it, actually...she had the date wrong.” 

“Hmmm,” her mom hums thoughtfully, keeping her expression neutral. “Has Judy been happy about it?”

“I guess.”

“Then it’s good they’re in touch.”

Jen shrugs, her attention drifting back to her textbook for a few moments before she mutters, “Judy’s always the one who has to call, though.”

Jen hears her mom sigh. She looks up to find her mom looking toward the kitchen, concern furrowing her brow as she murmurs, almost to herself, “That sweet kid.”

For a second, they’re both quiet enough to hear the distant hum of Judy’s voice on the phone. 

Maggie looks away, catching Jen’s eye and smiling sympathetically. “Well. At least she’s answering.” 

\+ 

Jen’s right about Wednesday night, when Judy has to go into the city for work. When Hank learns she’s off after midnight, he insists Jen take the car to pick her up, then recites his usual _driving in Manhattan_ lecture before relinquishing the keys. 

It actually feels strange, spending the entire length of Judy’s shift home without her. Jen’s gotten used to the safe buffer of her presence; she spends most of those hours in the basement, claiming a serious work out session, but she’s still summoned upstairs for dinner with her parents. It’s only the three of them around the table, and Jen’s tense the whole time, sitting next to Judy’s empty chair and hoping conversation stays light and casual.

Her parents have been in bed for a few hours by the time Jen has to head to the restaurant. She forgets, _again_ _,_ to bring her own music out to the car. There’s a mixtape of her dad’s in the stereo, and of course he follows none of the unspoken rules of mixes: there are three Billy Joel songs in a row before just one James Taylor, then an even longer run of The Beatles. She toggles between the tape and the radio, even though she practically promised her dad to not even touch the radio if the car was in motion. 

Jen’s a little early arriving at Portofino, technically eleven minutes before Judy’s due to clock out. There are no spots on the street, and she doesn’t want to pay for a parking deck, so Jen drives a slow loop to their dorm and back. By the time she returns the second time, Judy’s on the sidewalk outside the restaurant’s entrance, cigarette held limp between her teeth, eyes aimed patiently at the street. 

Her face brightens when she catches Jen’s eye through the windshield, and soon she’s hopping into the passenger seat. “Hi! Good timing.” 

“Hey.” Jen decides not to mention she was early, and holds out her hand. Judy smiles and places the cigarette between Jen’s fingers; she lifts it to her mouth with one hand and rolls down the car window with the other, blowing smoke into the night air just before pulling away from the curb. 

Once she’s driving, Judy plucks the cigarette from Jen’s lips.

“Work okay?” Jen asks once her mouth is unoccupied.

“Mmhmm.” Judy exhales out of her own half open window. “There was a girl I’d never worked with before covering Isaac’s shift. Sophie. She seemed really nice.” 

Judy reaches absently for the radio’s volume dial, turning it up to compensate from the rush of air from their open windows. Jen makes a face. “Sorry, it’s some shitty mix of my dad’s.” 

Judy grins. “You were listening to it, though.” 

“Only when there was nothing good on the radio,” Jen protests. “I wasn’t, like, having a personal sing along to _Piano Man.”_

_“I_ would,” Judy says. “I know at least half the verses.” 

“Track two, go nuts,” Jen tells her with an eyeroll. 

“Hold on, I like this song, too.” The tape has hit a stretch of U2; Judy turns the volume a few notches higher. “How was your night?” 

“Fine, I did an extra work out. Then we just ordered pizza for dinner…we got a small veggie in case you’re hungry. If not you can just have it for lunch.”

“Thanks,” Judy says, smiling over at her. “Thought maybe you guys would order from a burger place or something. Take advantage.”

“I mean, we did _all_ order veal.”

“From a pizza place?” 

Jen smirks. “Yeah, it was pretty gross, but worth it without your vegetarian judgment.”

Judy laughs, her head tipping back against the seat’s headrest. “I _am_ glad you got to have dinner with just your parents, though. They should get some time with just you.”

Jen shakes her head, dismissive. “My parents love having you at the house.”

Judy smiles at that even as she argues, “I hope so, but still...it’d be totally understandable for you guys to want some family time. Seriously, if you ever need me to lay low any other night, I _really_ don’t mind.”

“It’s fine.” 

“I just feel kinda bad, if it’s like...you _never_ get to see your parents without me around, you know? I could even go back to the dorm a few nights early – “

“No way,” Jen cuts her off. “If you go back to the dorms, I’m fucking going with you.” 

Jen’s face warms; she sounded more forceful than she meant to, and she can feel Judy watching her, not saying anything. Just waiting. 

“All day today, when you weren’t there, I couldn’t, like _..._ _relax_ _,_ or something. The whole time” 

The words come out clumsy and halting, and the only reason Jen can even talk about this is because it’s dark, and she’s driving, eyes forced to stay on the road instead of Judy. 

“Especially at dinner, it was like...I kept waiting for them to give me some kind of bad cancer news.”

 _“Oh,”_ Judy’s voice is small, hushed with sudden clarity. 

“Yeah. Just, I knew if there was anything to tell me, they’d probably do it tonight, when you weren’t there.”

“Was there?” Judy asks worriedly. 

“No. There hasn’t been in awhile, actually. And it’s so stupid anyway, because if they have something to tell me, I _know_ they’re gonna fucking tell me. It’s not like I can avoid it. But still. Sometimes when I’m home, if it’s just me...it feels like they could just drop some new bomb on me, at literally any time.” 

Jen pauses, her eyes flicking sideways for a glimpse of Judy, listening and watching with her eyes soft around the edges. 

“Except when you’re there,” Jen finally adds. “That makes it easier.” 

“I’m glad,” Judy says quietly.

Jen nods, but she doesn’t give that much time to land; she clears her throat and rolls her eyes at herself. “But like I said, I _know_ it’s stupid.” 

“It doesn’t sound stupid.” 

“If there’s bad news, I’m _going_ to fucking hear about it. I should just ask up front, get it out of the way...it’s my own fault I don’t.” 

“Did...was there a change in her treatment?” Judy’s voice is tentative, like she’s not sure what to ask. “You said she’s been on this round chemo for longer than normal, right?” 

“Yeah, almost two years now.” Jen realizes she’s squeezing the steering wheel. She relaxes her grip, tries to flex the ache out of her fingers. 

“So, it used to be like, Mom would go into remission, where she was supposedly cancer free and didn’t have to do treatment, but then it’d come back somewhere new and she’d start a new round of chemo or radiation or whatever. And it’d be like, after _this many_ weeks we’ll see how it’s working, and sometimes they’d have to start over and sometimes she’d be in remission for awhile...but that’s not even really possible anymore.” 

Jen stops talking for a moment, and Judy matches her quiet – doesn’t push, doesn’t nudge Jen to keep talking, and she surprises herself by continuing on her own.

“She’s technically stage four, which is bad...but it hasn’t really gotten any worse in a long time. Which is good, kinda. Supposedly. It’s _stable_ , at least, but the thing is now chemo’s a more permanent thing. I mean, it could be worse, every three weeks isn’t _so_ bad. It’s just a more indefinite treatment then it’s ever been before.” 

“Gotcha. Sorry, I shouldn’t even be asking...you already pretty much told me that before Christmas.”

“It’s fine,” Jen mutters. “I know I’ve never really explained it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Judy quickly assures her. “I mean, if you don’t want.” Judy pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice sounds like someone being very careful. “I...I never want to ask too much, since you said it was nice, going away to school where it wasn’t the main thing people knew about you, or talked to you about.” 

Not for the first time, Jen’s struck by how well Judy remembers the things she says. 

“But you _can_ talk about it,” Judy adds earnestly. “To me. Whenever you want.” 

“Thanks.” Jen tries to lighten her tone. “But, yeah, that’s the thing, there’s not even much to talk about anymore. Which is kinda nice. Like, this is shitty to say, but at least this way we’re not constantly dreading how the next check up is gonna go, or waiting to hear about test results that take a fucking week.” 

Her voice is too loud, too intense; Jen stops talking and takes a heavy, steadying breath, suddenly self-conscious. She can’t even remember why she started talking about this, has to mentally retrace her own recklessly honest steps back to the beginning of the conversation. 

Still Judy just waits out the silence. 

“I think I’m just still kinda in the habit of expecting bad news,” Jen says eventually. “But there’s no actual reason to think there is any. I think that was my point.” 

“I get that,” Judy says, soft and warm. Jen can hear the smile draped across her words as she continues, “I know you didn’t ask for a critique, but ... I think you handle it all really well. I don’t know if I’d be able to.” 

Jen shakes her head, reflexively rejecting the admiration; it’s an especially embarrassing one coming from Judy, of all fucking people. Jen still remembers how great Judy was during Maggie’s chemo appointment after Christmas, and anyway, Judy’s gone through more trauma in her childhood than an entire weeekend lineup of Lifetime movies, and she’s still grown up to be the fucking personification of sunshine, not to mention probably the best person Jen knows. 

All Jen says, though, is a dismissive, “For the record, I didn’t say all that to fish for compliments.” 

“Duh.” Even without looking, Jen can tell Judy’s smiling again. “Cause you know you don’t have to fish for it from me. I offer compliments completely _unbaited .”_

Jen groans theatrically at the word play, but she’s grinning. “God, you’re lame.”

Jen slows down for a stoplight, and it’s safe for her to look at Judy now; Judy’s smile widens when she does. 

+

They wake up after eleven the next morning, sleeping off a late night of drinking and playing cards in front of back to back Blockbuster rentals, _Dazed and Confused_ followed immediately by _Clueless_ _,_ the hours of tipsy laughter making up for all the seriousness on the drive home.

Even with the late start to their day, they’re slow to shake off the hangover, only just starting to feel normal when they leave Jen’s house to walk to the dance studio. They time it to arrive around three o’clock, when the nearby schools get out, giving Jen just enough time for a brief, obligatory catch up with Ms. Bryant before dozens of little girls flood in with their backpacks and dance bags, where they’ll crowd into a poorly lit dressing room to make the hasty costume change from student to dancer. 

Jen’s unprepared for the surreal familiarity that grips her from the moment they’re on the stairwell, heading up to the second floor of the building above the boxing gym that occupies for the first. It is unfathomable, suddenly, that Jen hasn’t been here in eight months. She knows this studio as well as her own bedroom, has known it longer and more intimately than any school she ever attended: every smudge on the mirror, the faded tap shoe marks on the wall, the precise spot where stripes of sunlight stretch across the wooden floor.

Ms. Bryant is sitting at the piano bench as though it’s a desk, marking up sheet music, but she stands and smiles when Jen walks in with Judy trailing happily behind her. 

Her old teacher seems genuinely happy, and surprised, that Jen followed through on the visit. She actually comes to hug her, quick but warm, before Jen introduces Judy. When she says Judy’s her roommate at UNY, she catches Ms. Bryant giving her a quick once over, obviously assessing she isn’t a dancer, before smiling and asking, “And what are _you_ studying there, dear?” 

Ms. Bryant’s every movement, from her walk to the slightest incline of her head, is regal and graceful, a monument to the prima ballerina she once was. In her early sixties now, Ms. Bryant arrives to teach class as though dressed for a dinner party, sleek outfits and tasteful jewelry, her signature earrings winking against her dark hair, now veined with silver. Jen’s mother likes to say Ms. Bryant _exudes glamor;_ dance parents tend to treat her with respectful deference, but only her students are privy to the moments in class she demonstrates a combination they just aren’t getting, and no matter her age or attire, her technique is still annoyingly flawless. 

“Well, quickly, tell me all about it,” Ms. Bryant says once they’ve gone through the fast, expected small talk like how long Jen is home and how close the studio is to the next recital. “What’s the department like these days, with Rhonda running things? And Jonathan, how are you liking him?” 

Jen can’t help but smirk a little at Ms. Bryant’s casual use of her UNY instructors first names, and she dutifully talks through the freshman year dance program so far. She has to start over and give even quicker summaries twice, with the arrival of Elliot, Ms. Bryant’s son-in-law and rehearsal pianist, and then Miss Hallie, who teaches some of the younger classes. 

The smallest drip of predictable bitterness leaks into Jen’s tone when she talks about last semesters recital and her minimum contributions, and Ms. Bryant’s face crinkles into that amused, knowing expression that so pissed Jen off last year. 

“Well, it’s been a lot of years since you were paying dues, Jennifer,” she says, not without affectionate. “I’d expect you to struggle a bit with the adjustment.” 

“She was still really incredible in that recital, though,” Judy says loyally. “In both numbers.”

Ms. Bryant smiles at her, lips closed and eyes twinkling. “Well, of course she was.” Her eyes drift to Jen, brows arching. “She was taught by the best.”

The dancers start arriving and derail their conversation with their gasps and shrieks of Jen’s name. They bypass the dressing room and cluster around the piano. Only a few of the girls – the most frequent soloists, the agreed upon stars – approach Jen for a hug, apparently confident at being remembered from their own stellar performances, but most of them feel okay peppering Jen with questions, buoyed by Ms. Bryant’s pointed reminder that Jen is visiting on break from UNY’s dance program. The teacher eventually has to shoo them off to the dressing rooms with a severe reminder that class will start at 3:45 whether they have changed or not. 

“You girls stick around as long as you’d like...Jen, I’m sure the girls would love a few pointers, you know they’re thrilled to hear from anyone other than me. And Judy, you photograph whatever you please, their parents have all signed releases for any filming we do in the studio.” 

In the lull before class starts, Jen walks Judy to the display case that lines the hall between the studio and dressing room. Judy’s grinning widely, and she nudges her shoulder against Jen’s while they walk. “Your dad wasn’t kidding...you’re like a celebrity.” 

“Ms. Bryant makes the younger kids stick around through the studio’s whole recital,” she explains. “So a lot of them have been sitting through my solos since they were even younger...anyone who’s really into it always notices which older girls get onstage the most. Look, here it is.” 

They’ve reached the lengthy display case, the centerpiece of which is a giant trophy, the studio’s third place overall finish in a national competition two years ago – Jen’s individual placements had greatly contributed. 

“Wow.” Judy’s sufficiently impressed. “It’s the biggest one in here.” 

“It should be, the biggest win the studio’s ever had.”

“Ms. Bryant seems great,” Judy says. “Really _sophisticated.”_

“She lived in Paris for two years and never wants us to forget.” 

Judy laughs. “Well, it’s obvious she’s really proud of you.”

“She just likes taking credit,” Jen says, then immediately feels a little guilty and adds, “And I guess she's allowed. She did teach me a lot.” 

Judy starts a slow scan of the rest of the display case contents, but she’s soon more drawn to the framed photos lining the opposite wall. 

“Oh, hey, I’ve worn this!” Judy says excitedly, pointing to a photo of Jen and Gabe Wallace, holding trophies for their second place duet. Jen’s wearing the red sequined outfit Judy tried on at Christmas. Judy nudges her arm, teasing, “Looked better on me.” 

Jen shoves her playfully, though she’s not actually inclined to argue. “Yeah, well, you weren’t burdened with a fucking headpiece. Or the fishnets.” 

Judy laughs. “I’m kidding, you look great. Like, Old Hollywood gorgeous.” 

When the class gets started, Judy wants to go watch. She ends prowling the perimeter of the room with her camera, while Jen hovers near Elliot and the piano, watching Ms. Bryant weave between her students, every phrase out of her mouth, whether an instruction ( _“passe releve!”)_ or a critique (“Where are you looking, Tess?”) utterly familiar. 

There’s an unexpected tug of longing in Jen’s chest, standing here in the wrong part of the room, feeling _incorrect_ in her jeans and her Converse and her hair down past her shoulders. There’s a second where Jen’s almost desperate to join these kids, strut directly to her old spot on the floor or at the barre and just _dance_ , safe and comfortable in the certainty that she is the best one here, that she is far past having to prove it. 

She doesn’t come close to that feeling in any of the studios at school, and that realization is the closest thing to homesickness that Jen has felt her whole first year of college. 

But then Judy lowers the camera from in front of her face and looks for Jen, smiling when their eyes catch. It makes Jen think of fall break, that night in the studio: the warmest memory she has on a UNY dance floor.

They end up staying for the full class, and Jen is talked into demonstrating a quick combination, which is received with an embarrassingly ego boosting awe despite Jen not being dressed for peak performance. Later, when Ms. Bryant instructs the girls to begin their cool down routine, the stretches are soon abandoned as the kids gather around Judy with shy requests for more posed photos.

Jen leans her elbows on the piano and watches, smiling lazily to herself as Judy produces a sincere compliment for every little girl who steps in front of her lens, patiently waiting as they arrange tiny, stick figure limbs into multiple dance poses. At some point, Judy is allowing three of the kids teach her the five positions of ballet, and Jen’s thinking of calling her out, say she should already know this, when Ms. Bryant’s voice is suddenly right behind her. 

“You’re happy.” 

Jen twists around, startled at the sudden declaration. “Huh?” 

“At UNY,” Ms. Bryant clarifies. Her knowing little smirk is back. “I can tell.”

Jen’s cheeks are warming under the scrutiny. “I like it, yeah.” 

“Mmm _hmm,”_ Ms. Bryant hums, chuckling to herself. “I’m very glad you do. Just having my little _I told you so_ moment.” 

Jen doesn’t laugh, or argue. She’s barely even listening. On the dance floor, Judy demonstrates a perfect fifth position, then curtsies, sweet and formal, to an arc of applauding ten year olds. Jen kind of wishes she was the one with the camera. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunes
> 
> Til I Hear It From you - Gin Blossoms  
> Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want - The Smiths  
> Not An Addict - K's Choice  
> All I Really Want - Alanis Morissette  
> You Oughta Know - Alanis Morissette  
> Here Comes The Sun - The Beatles*  
> La Vie Boheme - Rent Original Broadway Cast  
> I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - U2


	6. and I thought what I felt was simple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks again for stick it out through another unreasonable hiatus. Our holiday plans had to be adjusted for COVID safety reasons and we ended up being in different states for a month, which delayed us pretty significantly, and then - against all odds! - this chapter ended up being by far the longest yet. If you're still here, we are aggressively appreciative and also apologetic, and of course hope you enjoy!

_“...it’s a dark dizzy merry go round, when she keeps you dang-LIIIIIIING – “_

“You know, Barham’s right across the street,” Jen says dryly, referring to the theater department building and cutting Matthew off mid-song. 

“Seriously,” Audrey says, stretching at the barre on Matthew’s other side. “Change your fucking major already.” 

“Maybe I will,” Matthew retorts. “Maybe in the drama program I won’t be _surrounded_ by ice queens.”

“Please, you’d come running back to us so fast.” Audrey rolls her eyes at him, bringing her foot up to touch the back of her head – she seems to take pride in being an obnoxious show off in early morning warm ups. “Like as soon as you realize every other skinny white guy also wants to play Mike on Broadway.”

 _“Mark,”_ Matthew corrects with a scathing look. “And probably some of them want to play Roger.”

“Only the straight ones,” Audrey mutters.

“Not many of those in Barham,” Jen adds with a smirk.

“Y’all are such bullies,” Matthew says, but fortunately Madame Lowry calls them onto the floor, saving them from yet another _Rent_ based argument.

On the other side of spring break, they’re starting to prepare for the spring recital, which promises to be just as underwhelming as last semester’s until Mr. K’s announcement at the end of their Thursday afternoon choreography workshop.

“Before we adjourn for the day,” he says in his typical formal manner. “We’ve reached the point in our time together where we have to address the most awkward matter...your grades.” 

Jen swaps an impatient look with Audrey – they’re supposed to be dismissed in two minutes – and half tunes out Mr. K. She never worries about her grades in dance classes; doing A worthy work in evals is the bare minimum. Jen works hard to distinguish herself to the instructors – the good grades she takes as a given.

“As you know, once evening recital rehearsals kick in mid-April, your workshop attendance will no longer be required...which means I have to submit my final assessment by that time. Your work throughout the semester will of course be taken into consideration, but we _do_ have a final….project, of sorts. In just over two weeks time, on April 9th – “ 

Hearing a concrete date, Jen forces herself to pay attention to whatever assignment is coming.

“– all of you will be expected to perform a duet, choreographed by you and your partner, to be evaluated by myself, Madame Lowry, and Miss Rice. Ballet or contemporary, the choice is yours...most of the boys will have to double up, of course.”

There are some scattered groans, and Blake Gaffney calls out, “Hold up, we’re the only ones who have to do _two?”_

“We are certainly not forcing you, Mr. Gaffney,” Mr. K says with a put upon expression. “All students are required to prepare only one performance, and if any girls have failed to secure a partner by Tuesday, please see me. However, I think most of you men will want to take advantage and appear before us twice...as we have decided to select one pair to be featured in May’s recital.”

There’s a palpable uptick of interest among the students, a few of them already twisting around in an attempt to make hopeful eye contact with potential partners, and Jen feels a warm prickle of excitement getting started in her chest; no one thought there would be any featured performances their entire first year. Whatever pairing is picked will be the only freshman to get any distinction onstage. 

Audrey glances sideways at her, and Jen’s eyes flick away instinctively, anticipation suddenly souring to something more anxious. She’s not used to the lack of certainty, but she's developed a solid assessment of her fellow students by now, and there are four of them, maybe five – Erica Rowe could be a dark horse, if she doesn’t screw herself by pairing with Blake – who are likely to be chosen. 

When Mr. K dismisses class, Jen walks with Audrey and Matthew to grab their bags, lined up by the door, none of them talking until Kaitlin Davis has the fucking gall to touch Matthew’s arm and say, “Hey, Matty, you want to work together for the audition?” 

Jen hears Audrey scoff, not bothering to be quiet about it. 

Matthew tilts his head sideways to give Kaitlin a fake but apologetic smile. “Awww, damn it, I _so_ would, but I just got double booked.” He wags a finger between Jen and Audrey. “You should snag Oliver, though, y’all were super gorgeous together today.” 

Once Kaitlin’s wandered off to pursue other prospects, Matthew arches his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “I _am_ double booked, right?” Warily, his eyes move between Audrey and Jen. “Ballet with you, contemporary with you?” 

“Fine with me,” Jen says crisply. 

There’s no point feigning indecision: Matthew’s the best male dancer in their year, _and_ he’s really taken to choreography. Partnering with him should give her a slight edge over the minimal competition – save for Audrey.

She doesn’t even bother with an agreement, just rolls her eyes at Matthew and says, “Of _course_ you get twice as many chances to be chosen...does anything in dance _not_ favor the fucking _dudes_?” 

Matthew thinks for a moment. “Y’all get way better costumes.” 

Jen gets back to the dorm, showers, and starts pulling out infrequently played cassette tapes, the ones she’d filled with potential dance music. As mixes, they’re a mess, a haphazard collection of classic rock staples next to showtunes next to symphony arrangements. Perched on top of her desk, Jen sits beside the stereo, fast forwarding through tracks while keeping an eye on the clock. 

It's Thursday, and Judy should be back from her painting class soon; she hadn’t mentioned Ian at all after the same class on Tuesday – actually, she hasn’t mentioned him since before spring break – but Jen’s not calling it a win yet.

She's zoned out on a piece from the _Edward Scissorhands_ original film score, eyes shut to better visualize vague potential choreography, when the door opens. Jen opens her eyes to find Judy with her head tilted, taking in the unusual music choice with a puzzled smile.

“This is pretty,” she says with a question in her voice. 

Jen grins at her, mood buoyed by Judy’s prompt return. “Thought I’d change things up.”

Jen takes her feet off the desk chair and nudging it out a few inches so Judy can sit down; when she does, Jen props her feet on Judy’s knees and starts telling her about Mr. K’s announcement. 

“Honestly, thank fuck there’s no cast recording for _Rent_ yet,” Jen finishes once Judy’s caught up on the audition. “Matthew would probably make us dance to one of the sad death songs.” 

Judy laughs. “I think that could be very moving. _But_ …” She reaches around Jen and twists the volume knob on Jen’s stereo, turning up the plinking piano keys. “...it seems like you’re going in a different direction?”

“I’m just brainstorming.” Jen gives her a look and turns the volume back down, barely audible. “This whole thing is sort of shitty. Like, not only do the guys have double our chances of getting picked, tying our one fucking chance to get a featured number to our _choreo_ final sucks.”

“But you like choreography, I thought.” 

“Yeah, mostly. It’s still just such a general assignment. We almost have too many options, and we don’t know anything else about the recital programming. They’re probably not going to pick a really musical theater-y duet if some junior dancers are already doing something similar. So it’s not just about being the _best_ ...it has to be something that stands out. Like. I _know_ what kind of performance I could do to get an easy A+ or whatever. But even if it’s the best in the class, it might not get picked for the recital.”

Jen has to pause for breath; she’s getting herself worked up again, suddenly resentful of this opportunity she thought she wanted. “I should have fucking _stayed_ for the whole recital last semester,” she says. “That would’ve at least given me an idea of the variety…”

“Oh!” Judy’s eyes flare with a realization, and she quickly removes Jen’s feet from her legs and stands up, crossing to her side of the room. “I have this...” 

It’s not immediately clear what Judy means – she’s scanning the wall directly above her desk, which has gradually become an artfully cluttered collage, photos Judy’s taken for class interspersed with other mementos of the year: various postcards from tourist spots she’d visited early on, a birthday card from Jen’s parents, Playbills from _Rent_ and (despite Jen’s protests) _Cats_ , the Alanis concert ticket, the ears from her Halloween costume, and even, somewhat bizarrely, her boarding pass for her flight back to New York. 

Jen’s still not sure what she’s going for when Judy carefully peels something off the wall, leaving a rectangular hole behind, but then she turns around with a triumphant smile and brings Jen the program from the winter dance recital. 

“It might not be that helpful,” she says apologetically. “It’s not like it has real descriptions of every performance.”

Jen scans the program quickly – she’s pretty sure she never even opened one herself back in December – then smiles up at Judy. “It’s actually _really_ helpful, thanks...just knowing the music gives me a decent idea of the style.” 

She studies the program for another moment, thinking. 

“I could also maybe ask Olivia what kind of numbers the junior class is for sure doing,” Jen muses, referring to Olivia Fry, the UNY junior she knew back at Ms. Bryant’s studio. “Matthew has some sophomore friends, so he can do some recon for their year, too...Audrey’ll have him doing some basic ballet shit, no way she’s strategizing like this.” 

Jen doesn’t add that _basic ballet shit_ is less likely to be seen as repetitive in a recital that’s nearly half classical ballet regardless.

Settling back into Jen’s desk chair, Judy smiles up at her. “You’re gonna win. You and Matthew, I mean. I know you are.” She rests her elbow on Jen’s thigh and taps her fingers pointedly against the recital program. “I’ve seen the entire freshman class perform, remember? _Twice_. So I’m very familiar with your competition.” 

Jen arches one eyebrow. “Uh-huh. So what do _you_ think of Anna Maguire’s _saut de chats?”_

Judy lifts her chin, voice suddenly haughty. “Respectable, but she needs to refine her technique.”

Rolling her eyes, Jen smothers a smirk; she’s pretty sure Judy heard that phrase from Ms. Bryant. And of _course_ she made sure there was still a positive adjective in there somewhere. Judy couldn’t pick Anna Maguire out of a chorus line, but she still has to call her skills _respectable._

“Good assessment,” Jen says, then can’t resist adding, “And what about Audrey’s _fouettés_?”

“Yours are better,” Judy answers, not missing a beat.

Jen grins. There is no reason in the world Judy’s confidence – full of bias and free of expertise – should have any effect on Jen’s own, but it does. 

+

Even though Matthew lives in the same dorm building, and he and Jen have to be in the dance studio at the same time five mornings a week, Friday is the first time they’ve ever walked to class together. Jen’s waiting outside his dorm room, leisurely eating a granola bar for breakfast, when he finally emerges, maybe one minute before Jen would have had to give up and head to class on her own. She figures the morning ambush is the best way to talk to him on his own, getting first dibs on setting a rehearsal schedule.

Once they get to class – Audrey always beats them there, and her eyebrows arch when they come in together – the subject of the auditions is dropped. They stay away from it in every class, and over lunch with Judy, and then later that night when they meet up in Audrey’s dorm to pregame a party Matthew heard about in one of the on campus apartments. 

It’s supposed to be a pretty big party, co-hosted by multiple apartments in one corner of the ninth floor, and even their pregame crowd is larger than usual. Jen and Judy show up to find Audrey’s dorm room packed full; Preston came with Matthew and brought a few suitemates, and Jen’s introduced to multiple friends of Audrey’s roommate. She and Judy have to sit together on top of Audrey’s desk to do the tequila shots getting passed around the room.

When the group files out of the dorm to walk across campus, Jen tugs Judy by the crook of her elbow, getting her out of earshot of everyone else to ask, “Okay, remind me Audrey’s roommate’s name.”

 _“Jen,”_ Judy hisses her name and gives her this look caught between amusement and admonishment. “We’ve met her at least ten times!” 

“Okay?” 

“We went to Aces for her birthday drinks.” 

“We didn’t _know_ that’s why we were there.”

“Still.” 

“Just tell me her fucking name, Jude...I already spent an hour trying to figure it out. You usually say people’s names all the time when you talk to them.” 

“Wait, I do?” Judy frowns. “Is that bad? Or weird?” 

“It’s fucking _helpful,”_ Jen tells her. “It’s thanks to you that I don’t _have_ to remember people’s names. Such aaaaaas….”

Jen draws out the syllable and gestures at Audrey’s roommate, walking up ahead of them with a guy and a girl whose names Jen also doesn’t remember. 

“Abby,” Judy finally provides.

Jen makes a face. “Abby and Audrey? Gross.” 

Judy giggles the way she does when she’s tipsy, the laughter still strung through her words. “Do you know _our_ names?”

“Same first letter isn’t as bad.” 

“I’ve heard your grandfather call you _Jenny.”_

“It is kinda weird though,” Jen muses, pointedly ignoring the reference to a childhood nickname. “It’s like UNY’s housing department makes their assignments based on alliteration.” 

“Lucky for us,” Judy says warmly, looping her arm through Jen’s. She’s wearing a red and white flannel of Jen’s, unbuttoned over her dress. They tend to go casual for parties on campus: Jen’s in their Alanis tour shirt and ripped Levis. 

They stay like that, arm and arm, for the rest of the walk. Jen doesn’t think anything of it until Audrey, holding the door to the apartment lobby open, rolls her eyes at them and says, “What, are you two off to see the wizard?” 

Jen drops her voice, mock confiding, “Jude’s wasted already.” 

Judy elbows her. “ _I’m_ not the one forgetting people’s names.” 

Audrey squints at Jen. “Whose name did you forget?” 

“Nobody’s. The new people.” 

They walk past Audrey into the apartment lobby, still trailing the rest of the group, who are clumped around the elevator doors. “Hey,” Jen says in an undertone to Judy. “What’s _Matthew’s_ roommate’s name again?” 

“Mike,” Judy answers immediately.

 _“What?_ See! The alliteration theory is fucking real.” 

“Jen. I’m kidding. Matthew complains about his roommate _Derek_ on a daily basis.” 

“Oh. I do remember him talking about some dude named Derek. Just didn’t realize it was his roommate.” 

“He talked about him _sleepwalking.”_

The elevator doors slide open before Jen can come up with a retort, and they have to stuff themselves inside and ride to the ninth floor.

There are four apartments with their doors propped open, two on each side of the hallway. Unlike the themed Heaven and Hell party they’d attended on Halloween, there’s no thematic distinction between the co-hosting apartments. With their identical furniture and near identical layouts, it’s a little like moving between four identical versions of a singular party. 

Jen and Judy manage to snag one end of a large sectional sofa; sitting on actual furniture is a rarity, so Jen sends Judy to get them drinks, not trusting her to hold their seats: there’s a couple heavily making out in the middle of the couch, where the sections meet, the girl draped all over the guy’s lap, and if things were to turn horizontal, Judy would probably stand up so they’d have more room.

Cigarette smoke is already hovering over them like a low fog, so Jen pulls out her own pack and lighter. She and Judy sit together in the middle of the party, passing cigarettes between them while they practice blowing smoke rings. They mostly laugh their way through it, feeling silly instead of cool, like little kids blowing bubbles with their gum. 

Matthew’s with Preston and his friends, waiting their turn for beer pong, and Audrey makes a show of being social for all of twenty minutes before she finds them in the living room, cramming onto the couch on Judy’s other side and eyeing the cigarette dangling from Jen’s teeth with her judgmental, prissy ballerina face. Jen exhales smoke, aimed deliberately in her direction. 

With Audrey there, at least, their seats are safe, so Jen’s the one to shoulder her way through the crowd to the kitchen when she and Judy finish their drinks. There’s still plenty of liquor and mixers lining the sticky kitchen counters, which feels like the point of parties like this: putting up with someone else’s music in exchange for drinking someone else’s booze.

Even the music isn't bad tonight, though, especially right now; the stereo is on a run of eighties chick rock, Joan Jett & The Blackhearts playing as Jen moves slowly back through the living room, careful not to slosh the screwdriver she made Judy or her own whiskey and diet coke. Jen’s halfway back to the couch when her heart drops a few inches in her chest: Ian Isley is across the room, playing at one end of the beer pong table. 

Without meaning to, Jen stops walking, her eyes darting to the couch; Judy’s faced away from him, thank fuck. Jen looks at Ian again, eyes narrow. She wouldn’t have guessed such a pretentious fucking _artiste_ would lower himself to play beer pong, but his partner is a tiny redhead in a tube top, so that probably upped the appeal.

They’re playing against Preston’s friends (Jen obviously does not remember their names), so Matthew’s close by. Jen’s more glad than ever that Ian hadn’t shown up at Rook’s that night they saw _Rent_ , and Judy’s never had a chance to point Ian out to their friends. Scowling down at the full drinks in her hands, Jen starts walking again. They’ve been at the party less than a half hour, and already she’s strategizing on how soon she can get Judy back to the dorm. 

When she makes it back to the couch, the couple has moved from making out to arguing. Judy and Audrey are blatantly watching them: Judy with evident concern, Audrey smirking in amusement. 

Jen hands Judy her drink and sits down next to her, nodding toward the fight. “What’s that about?”

“Can’t tell,” Judy says in an undertone. 

“It’s _very_ non-specific,” Audrey adds.

“You always do this,” the guy is saying as Jen joins the others in unabashed staring.

“I do not,” the girl insists.

“Last week when we were at Chester's – “

“Do we know a Chester?” Audrey whispers.

“Hope not,” Jen says. “That’s a terrible fuckin’ name.” 

“I think it’s a bar on 5th,” Judy tells her.

Jen grins. “Ooh, look who knows the city now…”

 _“Ssshh,”_ Audrey hisses. “We’re missing it.” 

“– was completely different!” 

“Bullshit!” the guy says, loud enough to attract more the attention of people not sitting on the couch. 

“What am I supposed to do when you act like this?” The girl demands. “You’re being totally unreasonable.” 

“I asked you what you wanted, and you didn’t say anything! I’m not a fucking mind reader, Brooke!”

“I don’t _expect_ you to be, Leonard Patrick.”

“Did she just middle name him?” Jen mutters. “What is she, his fucking mom?” 

“I kinda like the name Patrick,” Judy comments, earning blank looks from Jen and Audrey.

The increasing volume of the conversation is drawing in more of an audience, and two of Brooke’s friends come rushing over to join the show. “C’mon, Brooke, it’s not even worth it,” she says, shooting Leonard Patrick a scornful look. “We said we were going to have a good night.” 

“I’m trying to! Talk to _him!”_

Brooke’s other friend addresses Leonard Patrick. “Can you please just stop?”

“What the fuck did I even do?” 

“We’d _all_ like to know,” Jen says under her breath, provoking a smothered laugh from Judy.

A guy who’s been hovering nearby that Jen didn’t realize was part of things suddenly speaks up. “Nothing, man. Stay out of it, Cass.” 

“Oh, that is _rich_ coming from you, you tried to convince him to break up with her!” 

“Girl, you buggin’!” 

Judy catches her eye and mouths the word _buggin’_ , eyes glittering with amusement. 

When they all start talking over each other, even louder now, Jen realizes the downside of being so close to the main action. When Judy’s not looking at her, Jen surreptitiously checks Ian’s corner, but she can’t see him anymore thanks to the gathering crowd. 

“Hey, uh, should we maybe move…?”

“Yes,” Judy answers right away, sounding relieved the get away from the conflict. Jen stands up and Judy follows; Audrey seems more reluctant, but she still follows them off the couch and across the living room, the opposite end of where Jen saw Ian.

“So what’re we doing?” Audrey says. “Wanna check out the other apartments?” 

“What’s the point, this party’s clearly peaked…” Jen looks pointedly at the argument: all participants are now standing up, and two of the guys who live in the apartment seem to be trying to get them to leave. “It’s all fuckin’ downhill from here. Let’s just go.” 

Judy’s already nodding amiably, but Audrey gives Jen a weird look. “Go _home?_ It’s barely past midnight.” 

“Whatever,” Jen says irritably. “We could go get a drink somewhere.” 

“There are drinks _here,”_ Audrey argues. Jen’s trying to come up with a tactful way of saying she doesn’t care what the fuck Audrey does when she turns to Judy and asks, “Do _you_ want to go?” 

Judy’s eyes flick to Jen’s, one corner of her mouth lifting into a smile. “I don’t care, whatever Jen wants to do is fine.”

Jen makes a smug face at Audrey, who just rolls her eyes and says, “Fiiiine, sleep well, grandmas.”

She huffs off to find her roommate, and Judy turns to Jen. “Did you want to just go back to the dorm?” 

“We don’t have to,” Jen says, suddenly flush with what feels like a victory. “It’s not that late...we could walk over to Aces? Get another round.” 

“Sounds good,” Judy says, an agreement so easily given. Just like always.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Jen will buy their drinks, she decides, to make up for the fact that they’re leaving four kitchens worth of free alcohol. 

“We should tell Matthew and Preston bye first,” Judy says, already drifting in the direction of the beer pong table. 

Jen’s eyes turn instantly frantic, picking through the crowd of spectators and waiting players; Ian isn’t playing anymore, and for a moment Jen’s hopeful he moved onto one of the other apartments. But then Judy’s pace abruptly slows, and Jen follows her gaze to a corner of the living room where Ian is gesturing with a beer, mid conversation with two other guys. 

Jen’s jaw tightens. They were _so_ fucking close.

“Uh, Jude?” Jen prompts when Judy’s stopped walking completely, feigning confusion as to the reason. 

“Sorry, I was just....” Judy turns to Jen with a sheepish smile. “It’s Ian. See?” She gives a subtle nod in his direction. “I had no idea he was here.” 

“Neither did I,” Jen blurts out unnecessarily. “Um. Do you see Matthew?” 

Judy looks blank for a second, then seems to remember her original intent. “Oh! No, I don’t see him...Preston, either.” 

“Oh, well. Audrey’ll tell them we left.” 

“Yeah...” Judy murmurs, catching her lower lip between her teeth. There’s something hesitant in her expression. She isn’t moving.

“Judy.”

Jen’s voice is firm and clipped, and Judy fully turns to her; her eyes are dark beneath her makeup and already on the brink of an apology. 

“Would it maybe be okay if we stay a little while longer? Just a few minutes, so I can say hi...we didn’t really get to talk much in class this week.” 

What sucks is that Jen _knows_ she could refuse _._ Just say no, sorry, but she’s ready to go. Judy wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t hold a grudge...wouldn’t even request an explanation. 

Jen could still get what she wants – and she is _so_ fucking close to being selfish enough to do it.

“Sure. Go ahead.” 

Judy smiles at her, wide and grateful, and says sincerely, “You can come, too, if you want.”

It’s tempting, to attach herself to Judy’s hip and act as a buffer, provide a chorus of impatient sighs and glances at her watch, but Jen’s not sober enough to trust herself with the task. 

“It’s fine, I’ll just wait.” 

“Thanks.” Judy flashes her another smile, but it fades fast as she combs her fingers through her hair, her other hand pointlessly adjusting the collar of the flannel shirt. “Do I look okay?” 

Judy asking that question, for the benefit of Ian Fucking Isley, pisses Jen off. 

She shrugs like nothing could possibly matter less. “You look fine.” 

Judy’s eyes dim, but she just nods and says, “Okay. Well. I’ll be right back.”

Jen doesn’t respond, already fighting off guilt as Judy walks away from her, heading for Ian. If _she_ had asked Judy that question, no matter what the reason, she would have been lavished with enthused, hyperbolic praise, yet Jen couldn’t even manage to answer with the plain, unadorned truth. 

Whatever. It’s not exactly breaking news that Judy’s a much better person than she is.

There’s really nothing for Jen to do but stand on her own and watch Judy with Ian. He gives her this patronizing little sideways hug and, from what Jen can tell, doesn’t introduce her to his friends. He’s so tall it’s embarrassing to watch, the way it forces Judy to fucking _gaze_ up at him while he only aims the occasional half-smile her way. At some point he actually _winks_ , and his hand is on the small of Judy’s back, and Jen is grinding her teeth so hard she wouldn’t be surprised to feel a crack.

It’s barely been the _few minutes_ Judy promised, but Jen’s sick of staring at them. She heads for the kitchen and makes herself a drink – one that features whiskey and soda in near equal amounts.

She finds Judy pretty fast when she returns to the living room. She’s alone, but also flushed and smiling. 

“Ready to go?” 

Judy glances down into the full Solo cup in Jen’s hand. “That’s okay, you can finish your drink.” 

Jen’s annoyed at the response – _she_ wasn’t the one who wanted to stay – but she hides her scowl behind the lip of the cup, gulping down a third of it. It’s so strong she nearly gags. 

“I might get another one, too,” Judy says, and just like that they’re staying at the fucking party.

Audrey spots them after about fifteen minutes, squinting suspiciously before she approaches. “The hell, I thought you guys were leaving.” 

“We _were,”_ Jen mutters.

“We were looking for Matthew to say bye, and ran into some people,” Judy explains over top of her. 

“I think he’s across the hall, it’s basically turned into a dance floor over there.” 

“Why aren’t you there?” Jen asks, the slightest edge of derision lining the question. Audrey’s never one to resist the chance to show off on a dance floor, no matter how shitty the music or the party. 

She lifts her cup. “They’re out of diet mixers over there. I’m going back now...you guys wanna come?” 

“Yes,” Jen says immediately, but Judy’s eyes are back on Ian, where they’ve been drifting every thirty seconds or so since she left him.

Audrey apparently notices. “Who are we looking at?” 

“Oh...” Judy’s cheeks turn pink. “That’s Ian...the one in the black shirt.”

“Long hair?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s hot.” Audrey smirks. “Now I know why you stayed.”

Judy smiles, looking pleased. Jen downs half her drink.

 _“So.”_ Audrey nudges Judy’s arm pointedly. “Why is he all the way over there?” 

“We were talking earlier,” Judy tells her. “But...I don’t know, I don’t want to bug him or anything. It’s not like he came _with_ me.” 

Jen rolls her eyes. “I think if you’re sleeping with the guy, you shouldn’t have to worry about talking to him at a party.” 

Judy meets her eyes, and Jen can’t read enough in her face to know what response might be coming, but Audrey speaks before she can. 

“No, I get it. You don’t want to seem clingy...how long ago were you talking to him?” 

“Um, maybe twenty minutes?” Judy looks to Jen for confirmation, but she pretends not to understand. 

“Completely acceptable,” Audrey declares with a crisp nod. She claps both hands onto Judy’s shoulders and steers her in Ian’s direction. “C’mon, you’re introducing me...just pretend I’m being really annoying about it.” 

Judy’s smiling, and allowing herself to be led, but she glances back at Jen over her shoulder and asks, “Want to come?” 

“No.” For maybe three seconds, Jen lets the blunt refusal stand on its own, but then she grudgingly adds, “I’m gonna go find Matthew. Check out the dance apartment.” 

Judy gives her a quick smile before Audrey forces her to quicken her pace and turn back around. For a second, Jen doesn’t actually go anywhere, just stands there and seethes, but when Judy reaches Ian she turns away, stopping by the kitchen for a refill before crossing the hall, following the loudest throb of music to find the dance floor. 

Matthew’s dancing exuberantly around Preston, whose dance skills tap out at a head bob that’s out of sync with barely bouncing shoulders. When Matthew spots Jen, he stops dancing to give her a very sweaty hug. 

“Thank God you’re still here! Audrey thought you left.” Matthew draws back and beams at her. His Southern drawl is thicker than usual, a sure sign he’s shit faced. “Listen, can we push rehearsal tomorrow? Maybe to, like, noon?” He pauses, seems to reassess. “Actually, one? One _thirty._ Yeah, I’m gonna probably be hungover until at LEAST one thirty.” 

The amount of liquor Jen’s consumed in her last two drinks alone guarantee she’s also in for a rough morning, but she’s in the mood to be mean to _someone,_ so she glares at Matthew and shouts over the music, “Too bad, I’ve got other shit to do tomorrow. If you can’t suck it up and get there you shouldn’t have made the fucking plan.” 

“Jesus.” Matthew gapes at her. “What’s with _you?”_

Jen doesn’t answer, just rolls her eyes and snaps, “I’ll see you tomorrow...at _ten thirty._ ” 

Not giving him a chance to protest, Jen turns on her heel and walks off, out of the apartment and into the hallway. She doesn’t feel like going back to where Judy and Ian are, so she leans against the wall, a few feet away from the door she just came through. There’s enough of a flow between the open apartments that she doesn’t feel too conspicuous – even if she is basically sulking in a hallway, smoking entire cigarettes by herself. 

Enough time passes that Jen starts expecting Judy to come looking for her. 

And then enough time passes that it’s clear she’s not going to.

Jen finishes the last cigarette in her pack and goes back to the apartment they started in, scanning until she sees Judy; she’s not even with Ian anymore, just Audrey and Audrey’s roommate – Jen’s drunk, she’s forgotten her name already. 

She stomps up to them and doesn’t return Judy’s smile. “I want to leave.” 

Judy’s eyebrows knit in concern, and she reaches out, taking gentle hold of Jen’s wrist. “What happened, are you okay?” 

She looks so worried that Jen immediately feels stupid. She shakes her head, tugging her arm out of Judy’s grasp. “Yeah, fine, just...I’m tired. And the music across the hall fucking sucks, so.” She meets Judy’s eyes. “Can we go?” 

Judy hesitates, only for a second, but Audrey goes ahead and answers for her, “She has plans, actually.” Audrey makes an exaggerated, suggestive face at Judy. “ _Big_ plans. We’re thinking, like, _eight_ inch plans?”

“But she won’t confirm,” Audrey’s roommate adds.

Jen ignores them, giving Judy an impatient look. 

She’s red faced and flustered, and trying not to smile. “Ian wants me to go back to his place...” 

Jen holds herself very still, not reacting to that beyond the slightest shift in her jaw. “Where even is he?” 

“There.” Judy points Ian out across the room without having to look for him. “He said he’d find me, before he leaves.”

Jen eyes him for a moment, standing at the stereo with a bunch of people who aren’t Judy, and scoffs. “So he’s got you on layaway. _Cool.”_

Judy flinches, and Audrey’s giving Jen a weird look. 

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, I’ll see you later.”

Jen gets five strides away before Judy catches her, tugging on her jacket this time. “Jen, hey.” Her eyes are big and anxious. “Are you mad?” 

“No, but…” Jen sighs, frustrated. “I wanted to leave like an hour ago – “

“I’m sorry.”

“– so it just would’ve been nice to know I didn’t need to wait around.” 

“I’m really sorry,” Judy repeats. “I didn’t know you were waiting, I...I thought you were with Matthew.” 

“I was.” Jen sucks a breath through clenched teeth, trying to ease her tone to something less intense. “He’s shit faced, and he’s gonna be useless in the studio tomorrow, so I’m just...I’m over this. And I’m going home.”

“Okay…” Judy’s eyes flick away from hers, just for a second, to look in Ian’s direction. “I could...do you want me to walk you back?”

Jen chokes on a laugh. “And what, then you’d walk by yourself _back_ here to meet Ian?” She pauses, on the fraction of a chance that she’s misunderstood, that Judy will correct her and say she meant walk her back to the dorm and stay there; she doesn’t. “What would be the point of that? I’m good. I’m going. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah...see you later. Be careful, okay? Walking back.”

Jen makes herself smile. “It’s like a five minute walk. I think I’ll be okay.” 

Audrey and Audrey’s Roommate are both watching her, so Jen lifts a hand in a sardonic wave before crossing the living room and leaving the apartment, heading down the hallway. 

She can still hear the music and laughter from the party until she’s in the elevator and the doors have shut. It’s the bright light and the quiet that makes Jen fully aware of how drunk she is – shitty, _wasted_ drunk. She’s not usually by herself, drunk like this. 

Jen really is going to be fucking wrecked tomorrow, same as Matthew.

She takes fifteen minutes to walk back to the dorm, ten minutes longer than it should. 

She kicks Judy’s bedpost when she walks into the dorm room, and immediately feels crazy for doing it – all Jen needs is to fuck up a foot for no fucking reason other than that’s she’s drunk and wishes she wasn’t.

She makes herself gulp down a bottle of water and three aspirin before taking off her shoes and socks and jeans and falling into bed. She sleeps hard for seven hours, before her alarm goes off, and Jen wakes up to a weak stomach and Judy’s still empty bed. 

The half hour she spends under the hottest water the dorm showers have to offer wakes her up, but it barely makes a dent in her hangover. 

Planning to meet in the studio for day one was probably overly ambitious; Matthew shows up, but they don’t end up getting to any actual dancing or choreography. He never even takes off his sunglasses, or the beanie hiding his unstyled hair, the whole time they sit by the stereo in an empty rehearsal space and debate music and styles. Jen’s short and a bit bossy with him, leading Matthew to sarcastically refer to her as _Madame Lowry_ several times, but Jen maintains it’s only fair that she have more of a say in their audition: it’s her only shot at the performance, but Matthew gets two. 

After a hard won agreement on a song, the two of them make plans to meet again tomorrow – in the afternoon this time, not that Jen’s planning on getting anywhere near alcohol tonight – and split up for the day. Jen should really stay behind and do her usual Saturday morning conditioning routine, but jump training when her skull is still the home to a thirty pound hangover feels impossible. Still, she lies and says she’s going to hang around to work out for awhile; she doesn’t feel like walking back to Franklin with Matthew, and he seems glad to be free of her, anyway. 

When she does return to the dorm, Judy’s back in their room. Her hair is wet and she’s thrown on a tank top and pajama pants, no visible trace of her recent walk of shame home. 

“Hey!” Judy's smile is too big and bright and her voice is far too chipper, like she has to make it crystal clear she had a great night. But then she says, “I almost freaked out when I got back and you weren’t here...but then I remembered you were probably still with Matthew. And then I saw your clothes from last night on the floor so I knew you made it back okay. But it’s still _very_ good to see you.”

There’s an unformed joke somewhere about Judy suddenly being the overly worried one, but Jen doesn’t have the energy for teasing. “When’d you get back?” 

“Like an hour ago? Maybe a little less.” 

Jen turns away from Judy, bending down to get a water bottle from their minifridge. “Surprised he let you stay the night...kinda strikes me as more of a _I’ll call you a cab_ at three in the morning type.” 

“He’s really not like that…” Judy’s voice trails off, and Jen’s afraid she might be gearing up to make a case for Ian’s chivalry, but instead she says, “I really am _so_ sorry about last night, Jen. I shouldn’t have left you waiting around like that.” 

“It’s fine,” Jen mutters. In the harsh, sober light of day, she knows it’s better to downplay her own irrational sulkiness. “I was mostly annoyed at Matthew, not you.” 

“You _should_ have been annoyed with me,” Judy insists. “We made plans to go to Aces, and I completely bailed on them.” 

“It’s _fine,”_ Jen tells her; it comes out more impatient than reassuring. “We had that plan for like two fucking minutes. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Still. It was really inconsiderate of me,” Judy says. So fucking _earnest_. “But, listen, I was thinking, we could go to Aces tonight, maybe? If you still want to?”

Jen makes a face, kicking off her shoes and lying down on her bed. “I think I’m feeling a sober Saturday...already had to pound the fuckin’ aspirin this morning.” 

“Then maybe we could go see a movie or something? Or I could go pick out some videos at Blockbuster, if you’d rather stay in. Whatever you want!” 

“Mmm, yeah...I’d maybe do a movie. If there’s anything good playing.” Jen closes her eyes. “And if I can move by then.” 

“Does that mean you don’t want to get lunch?” 

For a second, Jen keeps her eyes shut and doesn’t answer. She exhales a slow, thin breath. “No, I probably should.” Her eyes open, and she sits up. “Something’s gotta soak up the whiskey.” 

Neither of them bother changing – pajama pants and workout clothes are pretty standard weekend dress code for the dorm’s dining hall. Jen gets a heaping plate of the burger station’s soggy fries that she usually steers clear of, and as soon as they’re settled at a table, Judy asks how it went with Matthew. Jen leaves out the arguing, but she talks through everything else about their planning, glad for the easy subject. 

By now, Jen’s used to the spotlight of Judy’s undivided attention, but there’s something different today: it’s too close, too vivid, too intense, like Judy’s afraid to look away and miss _something_ she seems to be waiting for. Jen isn’t sure what it is until they’re back in their room and Judy makes a joke. 

It’s not the joke itself – some flippant remark about the cover of Jen’s Weather and Climate textbook – that clues her in. The joke just makes Jen laugh, but as soon as she does, she catches a wave of relief breaking behind Judy’s eyes, and it hits her.

Judy’s been scrutinizing her all day for any trace of affection, grasping for proof of normalcy between them – proof she’s been forgiven. 

She keeps it up all afternoon. They’ve both got work to do; Judy’s skimming through library books and making notes for a research paper on Frieda Kahlo while Jen’s supposed to be reading for Weather and Climate. It’s the kind of Saturday afternoon that usually passes in comfortable quiet, save for one of Jen’s softer mixtapes playing through the stereo. Today, though, Judy keeps every conversation going, even over top of their studying. It’s like she’s afraid of the tension that might sneak back in behind their silence. 

+

On Monday, with a month left in the semester, Judy’s photography professor announces their final project: a photo series, between eight and twelve prints, titled whatever adjective they pull at random from a ceramic bowl Professor Bailey passes around.

“You’ll find that many of these titles have an obvious technical meaning, _but…_ ” Bailey smiles slyly at the class, handing the bowl to a student at the front of the classroom. “You are, of course, encouraged to stay open to all interpretations when deciding on your subjects.” 

Judy smiles, excited, her eyes tracking the bowl as it comes closer. Ian’s always complaining about assignment prompts in their art classes; he says they stifle creative freedom. She understands where he’s coming from – it _would_ seem limiting to someone like Ian, who seems to have his own endless stream of ideas, unprompted – but Judy actually enjoys figuring out her approach to each assignment. 

The bowl finally makes it around to Judy’s seat, and she plucks out one of the few strips of paper left, eagerly unfolding it to read the boldly scrawled title _Bright._

Photography is her last class of the day, and on her walk back to Franklin, Judy absently twirls the paper around her fingers, thinking. Obviously, she can’t just take the literal route and turn in a series of high exposure, daylit images – she’ll stay open to other interpretations, just like Professor Bailey said. 

Jen’s not in their room when Judy gets there, but her dance bag is on the floor, meaning she’s probably home but showering. 

Kicking off her shoes, Judy pulls her smallest sketchpad out of her drawer and sits down with it at her desk. She brainstorms best this way, like it’s how her hand is most comfortable: pencil between her fingers, moving across a page, even though she’s just filling it with mindless doodles and occasional words – at one point she just scrawls a cursive loop of _bright bright bright bright_ , turning the end of the words into bowtied ribbons. 

By the time Jen walks into the room toweling her wet hair, Judy has an idea.

“Whoa.” Jen raises her eyebrows. “You’re using your desk as a desk.” 

Judy pivots in her chair to smile at her. “I am.”

“It looks so _formal.”_

“I kinda have a favor to ask you.” 

“What?” Jen gives her a slanted look of exaggerated suspicion, lifting herself up to sit on top of her own desk. “You drafting legal documents? Need me to notarize something?” 

Judy laughs. “Sorry...kind of a bigger favor than that, actually." 

“Okaaay...what’s up?” 

“I got my final assignment for Photography today,” Judy starts. “We have to do a photo series, at least eight really good prints.” 

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Jen says. “You do way more than that every week.” 

“Yeah, but since it’s a series they all have to be like...on a theme, or they tell a story, or something like that. They have to go together, basically, and they all have to be _really_ good. Soooo,” she drags out the word and meets Jen’s eyes. “I was wondering if I could do some photoshoots of you dancing.” 

“Photoshoots?” Jen repeats, looking skeptical. “What, like you want me to pose faking different dance moves?” 

“No, no, you’d actually be dancing,” Judy explains. “Although, actually, I _was_ thinking it might be cool for the series to track the whole process. Get _some_ photos where you’re dancing like you would for a performance, with a costume and the stage make up and all that...maybe even get you onstage, if possible. But then I’d also like to get some in your practice spaces, just in your normal workout clothes. Show the whole process, you know?” Judy’s talking faster now; hearing it out loud is getting her excited about the idea. “Because you work so hard and you practice so much and it’s beautiful every time, not just onstage at recitals or competitions.” 

Jen breaks eye contact at that, her face going flushed and pinched at the compliment. 

“I mean. Your professor’s probably sick of my face at this point – “

“Not possible.” 

“– but I’ll do it. If you really think that’s interesting enough for a series, or whatever.” 

“It is,” Judy says with certainty. “It’s perfect for my prompt...we had to randomly draw titles for the series, so it can’t just be about anything.” 

“What’s your title?” 

_“Bright.”_

Jen looks up, frowning. “Uh, I can probably get us access to the auditorium if you want some stage shots, but I’m not sure we’d be allowed to mess in the lighting booth. If you’re thinking of like a spotlight shot or whatever” 

“That’s okay, there are lighting rigs I can check out from the art department,” Judy assures her. “And anyway, that’s not what the title’s about.” 

It’s about Jen herself, the glow and shine of her. Jen, catching all the light in a room – any room, really, and any time, but especially when she dances. 

Jen just looks confused, so Judy says simply, “It’s more metaphorical.” 

Jen rolls her eyes theatrically. “Okay, _artiste.”_

Judy smiles, getting up from her desk chair and crossing the room. “Thank you.” She hugs Jen and feels wet blonde hair drip onto her shoulders. “I’ll help you with _your_ class stuff if you ever need it.” 

“My _dance_ class stuff?” 

“Sure.” Judy pulls away and grins at her. “I can just stand still and you can lift me or something.”

Jen smirks. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

+

For the next two weeks, Jen and Matthew rehearse for their audition every day, sometimes directly after their classes end, sometimes heading back to the studio after dinner. Jen can tell they’re working around his rehearsal schedule with Audrey, too, and resists asking him any questions about it. She’s pretty much figured out the other pairings among her classmates, and Jen keeps catching herself watching them more in class, double and triple checking her own assessments on who she should consider actual competition. 

Jen’s usually the one negotiating with Matthew to stay a half hour beyond when he’s ready to call it quits for the day. It keeps her so busy she’s not even sure if Judy’s gone home with Ian after class at all – Jen never asks, and Judy hasn’t mentioned him. 

After a week of adjusting choreography as they go, Jen declares that she and Matthew need to have it locked in by the end of the coming weekend, leaving their final week to focus solely on perfecting the performance. After a four hour rehearsal session on Saturday morning, Jen goes back to the dorm, showers, then heads to Brooklyn with Judy. She needs to borrow her parents camcorder to start filming her rehearsals with Matthew, and both Judy and Jen’s mom seemed delighted with the prospect of a random family dinner. 

They don’t stay the night, but do sit around the living room for almost two hours after dinner, chatting and catching up while Judy has periodic success coaxing Yogi away from Hank, until Jen reminds her they’re supposed to meet up with Audrey and Matthew to _hang out_ , not specifying that they’re going to a party – a small one this time, thrown by a group of sophomore dancers, no reason to believe a big art major crowd might be in attendance. 

For the next week, Jen keeps up her daily studio schedule with Matthew, now rehearsing in front of the glowing red light of the watching camera. Every night she pops the tape into the VCR, cross legged at the foot of her bed like a little kid sitting too close to the television. When the tape goes in, Judy always gathers up her knitting or textbook and crosses the room to watch from Jen’s bed with an eagerness that suggests the two and a half minute dance routine is her all time favorite movie. Jen tends to watch every run through over and over, the remote always in her hand for frequent rewinding, and Judy will patiently look at the screen for the first four or five plays before letting her attention wander. 

The Saturday before the audition, Jen spends most of the time between lunch and dinner in the studio, then takes another two hours that night to go over the day’s tape. 

Jen’s sitting in the middle of her bed, watching that afternoon’s rehearsal with both legs pointed straight in front of her. She’s bent at the waist and holding onto her toes, fully stretching her hamstrings. Her extensions aren’t where they should be, and with less than 48 hours before the audition, any extra conditioning will help.

She watches herself dance on screen and groans, not for the first time that night, at the _grand plié_ to _enveloppé_ transition in the first verse.

“Too fucking fast,” Jen murmurs, quietly scolding herself.

“No, it’s not,” Judy disagrees.

She’s crossed-legged on her bed and turned towards Jen, but her focus is on a yellow pair of baby booties she’s knitting for her pregnant shift leader at Portofino.

“Yes, it is.” Jen rewinds the tape with a sour scowl. She watches her right leg extend outward and fly back down as she turns her body towards Matthew’s. “I look like I’m falling out of it.”

“You look beautiful!” Judy insists, knitting needles paused. “And the song gets quicker at that part anyway.”

“So, then you admit that I _am_ doing it fast.”

“Faster,” Judy corrects with heavy emphasis on the _er._ “Not too fast.”

Jen sighs and releases her toes to switch her stretching position. She bends her left leg beneath her and extends her right out to the side. Her eyes narrow at Matthew’s floor work. “His arms are wobbling on the back arch.”

Her judgement is met with silence, so she calls out, “Jude!”

Judy’s counting to twenty under her breath, knitting one stitch with each number, and when she finishes her row, she looks up at Jen. “Sorry, I didn’t want to lose count again. I really need to hurry and finish these.”

“Why? I thought the baby isn’t coming until July?”

“She’s not, but I won’t be here then. I need to finish them before the semester’s over.”

It’s been a couple of weeks since Judy’s mom insisted Judy come back home for the summer, and Judy had agreed without hesitation. 

Jen doesn’t voice her skepticism, figuring the plan will fall apart before May.

“Well, can they wait a few minutes?” 

Jen’s concern for her audition overshadows the embarrassment of begging for Judy’s undivided attention. It’s a rare request. Usually, she doesn’t have to ask.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course!” Judy sets her project aside, and comes over, plopping down on the bed behind Jen. “What’s wrong?”

Jen rewinds and points her finger at the slight quiver in Matthew’s forearms. “That! Audrey’s probably making Matthew do like fifty fucking lifts in their dance, so his arms are totally dead for mine.”

Judy lets out a whimper so sympathetic that it makes Jen’s eyes roll. 

“He was probably just tired. He’s been working really hard, rehearsing with both you guys.”

Jen scoffs and leans forward, continuing her stretch. “If he can’t handle two routines, then he shouldn’t have agreed to be both of our partners.”

“Didn’t your instructor make the guys double up?”

Jen slaps her palms on her comforter. “Whose side are you on!?”

“Yours!” Judy says, adamant but clearly amused. She places both hands on Jen’s lower back and gently pushes until her spine straightens. “You’re hunching.”

“ _You’re_ fucking hunching,” Jen spits back, too annoyed to care about her jab making sense.

Silently, she appreciates the readjustment and wonders if Judy’s hands are always this warm after she’s been knitting.

“I think you need to de-stress,” Judy says as if it isn’t obvious. “I have half a joint in my purse if you want it.”

Judy has half a dozen hookups for getting weed, but Jen can’t stop herself from wondering if the joint came from Ian. The thought of putting her mouth on anything he touched makes her stomach lurch, so she falls back on a flimsy excuse.

“You know I don’t smoke before performances,” Jen says, letting her words hang helplessly in the air, waiting for Judy to call her out for lying.

She doesn’t. Judy just whispers a soft, “Right,” and takes her hands off Jen’s back.

Jen pulls her leg back in and sits up, ready to apologize, but Judy stops her before she can start.

“I have an idea.” Judy scoots to the outer edge of the twin mattress and pats the space beside her. “Lay down on your side, facing the wall.”

“If this is your way of propositioning me, I gotta say I never took you for the bossy type,” Jen quips, moving into position.

“If I was propositioning you, you’d know it,” Judy retorts smoothly, remote in hand as she turns off the TV. 

The quiet that falls over their room is welcomed. Jen didn’t realize how embittered she’d become towards her audition music, a song she used to really like. She releases a long, tired exhale and waits for further instruction. The bed dips, just barely, as Judy lays down. Her knees bump into the back of Jen’s, so she bends her legs, giving Judy space to saddle up beside her.

“Oh, God. Are you gonna spoon me?” Jen asks, disguising her jitters as dread.

“No. I mean, I can if you want me to but—”

“Then what are you doing?”

“This,” Judy says, touching the tips of her fingers to Jen’s back and dragging them up and down, gently scratching.

Jen accepts the pampering with a breathless hum and lies still until the electricity firing randomly under her skin fades into a pleasant, full-bodied tingle. Judy doesn’t say anything else for a while, so neither does Jen. She stares straight ahead, suddenly grateful that she left the wall beside her bed plain because she can see Judy’s shadow. She’s propped up on one elbow and resting her head against her palm while the other tends to Jen. Warm puffs of air caress the back of her neck in a slow rhythm that Jen tries to match with her own breathing. She wants to be as calm as Judy.

Predictably, Judy breaks the silence. “Feel better?”

“Mmhmm,” Jen hums.

Judy sighs in relief. “Good. I hoped so. Lisa always did this for Max the night before his soccer games. It seemed to help him calm down. You know, he was on a traveling team, and he was only _nine_?”

“Must’ve been good,” Jen murmurs.

“He was.”

The pride in Judy voices matches what you’d expect an older sister to sound like when they talk about their precocious little brother — not a foster sibling talking about the parents’ biological son from six families ago.

“Lisa and Max…” Jen contemplates. “Those were the Tates, right? The second family?”

“Yeah.”

Jen already knows the answer to her next question, but still, she asks, “They were good ones?”

“Yeah,” Judy whispers. “Really good.”

Jen scrambles for another question, but the melty feeling in her bones is making it hard to think. Judy saves her with a subject change.

“Oh, I almost forgot! Shannon dropped off our roommate request forms for next year while you were at the studio. You still wanted to do that, right?”

“Shit, sorry. Did I forget to tell you? I’m thinking about moving in with Audrey.”

Judy’s quiet for a beat longer than she should be. “That’s a joke, right?”

Jen reaches around to weakly smack at her thigh. “Of course it’s a fuckin’ joke!”

“Well, you do have a lot in common,” Judy teases, tracing lazy circles between Jen’s shoulders. “You’d be on the same schedule, and her dorm is always pretty clean, too. I bet she’s a great roommate.”

“We’d kill each other,” Jen plainly says, positive that she and Audrey wouldn’t even make it to fall break without shedding blood.

“Or you’d become best friends.”

“I don’t need another best friend. Especially not one who matches her leotards and legwarmers.”

The back scratching pauses momentarily when Judy asks, “I’m your best friend?”

Jen wants to smack her again because it’s a ridiculous question, but the awe in Judy’s voice keeps her still. How could that surprise her? Jen knows she’s not an expert when it comes to friendship. She doesn’t know why girls freeze bras to bond at sleepovers or wear matching outfits to school. But she knows that she’s never let anyone into her life the way she’s allowed Judy access. Jen thought that made it clear — that it didn’t need to be explicitly said.

Jen never thought she’d regret not having a real best friend growing up, but now she wishes that she had some training. Judy deserves Best Friend Forever necklaces and nicknames and yearbook signatures that become inside joke laden essays. She deserves a sincere, heartfelt declaration about her position in Jen’s life, but the words tangle thickly in Jen’s throat.

She coughs to clear it and jests, “It’s not like anyone else would scratch my back because I’m a stressed out, neurotic bitch.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t coddle me.”

Jen knows she’s taking this audition much more seriously than the rest of her classmates, but she doesn’t know another way to be. “Jennifer’s very... _passionate,”_ Ms. Bryant used to say during rehearsal week.

“I...kind of already am.”

Judy’s apologetic tone makes Jen sigh. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, but it’s okay. Really. The audition’s a big deal. Plus, it’s kinda fun to see you like this.”

“Like I’m one turnout away from kicking Matthew in the dick?”

Judy laughs, “No! Like, so focused and intense. You care so much, and you want to do well. You’re passionate. It’s cool.”

She says it with such esteem. Ms. Bryant always said it out of the corner of her mouth, like it was something Jen needed to change.

“Yeah, well...it’s also pretty exhausting,” Jen concedes. Judy slides her hand from the center of Jen’s back to her right shoulder and squeezes, warm and firm. It happens a second time, and Jen turns over, evading what she fears could turn into a full blown massage. Judy does nothing but smile once Jen’s facing her. “I’m gonna fall asleep if I stay like this,” she groans, sitting up. “Let’s do something.”

“Like what?” Judy asks. She’s still lying down, but she’s rolled onto her back to look up at Jen.

“I dunno. Cards, a movie. I just want to stop thinking about the audition.”

“Cards will make you cranky if you lose.” Judy reaches for the remote. She turns on the TV, and, per usual, offers Jen the remote.

She shakes her head. “You pick.”

Judy’s eyebrows arch with surprise. “Wow, you really are desperate.”

Jen’s too tired to rebut, but when a second of _Blue Lagoon_ flashes on the screen, she perks up. “Wait, go back!”

+

Hours later, they’re deep into a late night music video marathon on MTV, and still reeling from the film.

“I still can’t believe they were fuckin' _cousins._ How did I miss that my entire life?”

Judy snorts. “Because that movie’s, like, porn for twelve year olds. They’re naked the whole time.”

“The _whole_ fucking time!” Jen marvels. She’s silently wondering how many cans of hairspray the costume department must have used to keep Brooke Shields’ hair perfectly covering her boobs when there’s a knock on the door. A glance at her bedside clock confirms that it’s well after midnight.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“I dunno,” Judy scoots off the edge of Jen’s bed. She throws a smirk at Jen over her shoulder as she moves towards the door, “Maybe it’s Audrey coming to compare bedspread patterns for your dorm next year.”

Jen sticks her finger towards the back of her throat and mimes a dramatic gag. Judy’s giggling when she opens the door, but her amusement quickly veers into shock.

“Ian!”

“Judy!” He mimics, holding up his hands like he’s a welcomed surprise.

Jen stiffens at the sight of him. He’s swaying slightly on his feet, eyes glassy and face flushed. Judy forces out a nervous laugh that curls Jen’s lips in disgust.

“What are you doing here?”

With a halfhearted shrug, he says, “The cops busted Griff’s party for noise. I was on the way back to my apartment when I thought about you,” and grins like it’s something impressive.

“Oh,” Judy breathes.

“Figured I could come by and pick you up.”

“For what?”

“Anything,” Ian chuckles, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His shaggy hair falls into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother brushing it away. “A drink, a movie...a trip down the rabbit hole.” He tugs the bottom of Judy’s shirt. “Come with me.”

Jen’s stomach lurches when Judy doesn’t immediately pull away. 

“Um...could you give me a minute?” Judy requests, glancing over her shoulder at Jen. Her gaze shifts to the mini fridge. “Here!” She hurries over and grabs a ginger ale. “Drink this,” she tells Ian, handing him the can. “I’ll be quick.”

He takes it without a thank you, choosing instead to look over the top of Judy’s head at Jen and raise the can in her direction — a smarmy acknowledgement of her presence. Judy waits to close the door until he cracks the tab.

Jen throws her legs over the side of her bed once they’re alone. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Judy points her thumb over her shoulder. “He said he was leaving Griff’s party and—”

“No, I know. I heard him,” Jen snaps. She considers Judy for a moment. Her eyes are shifty. She’s nervous. “You’re not actually going with him, are you?”

“I...well—”

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“He’s never come by before!”

“Yeah,” Jen says flatly. “That’s kind of the problem. If he wanted to see you, why didn’t he come by before he went to the party?”

Judy shrugs. “He was probably with his friends.”

“Who he apparently doesn’t want you to meet…” Jen trails off with a roll of her eyes.

Judy frowns and leans against the edge of her desk. She looks at the door and then back at Jen, her brown eyes wide and pleading.

“Maybe I should just make sure he gets home okay.”

Jen wishes it didn’t feel like a knife in her back. “Whatever,” she sighs, chin tipping towards her chest.

Judy takes a desperate step towards her. “I can be back soon. It doesn’t take that long to walk to—”

“You don’t have to.” Jen stands up and unmakes her bed. It’s already wrinkled from the hours they’ve spent lying there. “I’m just going to go to sleep anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

Jen doesn’t look at Judy when she murmurs in the affirmative. While she searches her bedding for the missing TV remote, she sees Judy out of the corner of her eye change out of her pajama pants into jeans. Her stomach rolls at the thought of Ian taking them off her within the hour. She turns off the TV, slips into bed, and turns toward the wall. The singular shadow mocks her. The jingle of Judy’s keys joins in a tag team.

Her voice floats across their room, annoyingly guiltless. “I’ll be back before breakfast is over. We should try that pancake-waffle combo again.”

“Sure.”

“Want me to turn this off?”

Jen glances over her shoulder to see Judy’s finger poised over the light switch. She sends a saintly smile in Jen’s direction.

“Yeah,” Jen says and tacks on a contrite, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Sweet dreams!” Judy whispers as the room goes dark.

She’s halfway out the door when Jen stops her. “Jude!”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, okay? And call if he acts like a dick.”

Judy’s only a silhouette in the hallway light, but Jen doesn’t have to see her to know that she’s beaming from the half assed blessing. She can hear it in her voice.

“I will! Goodnight!”

“Night.”

Jen hears Judy apologize for taking so long as the door closes. She closes her eyes and exhales against her pillow, slow and heavy. 

+

The audition is Tuesday afternoon, during their usual class time for choreography. After ten minutes for warming up, they’re all kicked out of the studio to line the edges of the hallway. It would have been undoubtedly easier to give them all a time slot throughout the class period rather than clog up the corridor, but Jen’s heard the instructors like to recreate the worst aspects of professional auditions.

They were told to dress somewhere between class and stage-ready, to at least give an idea of their intended performance look in case they’re chosen for the recital. It’s also structured so the boys who are doubling up have a slight rest between auditions, and fucking of _course_ Audrey and Matthew are among the first to go, leaving Jen to sweat it out in the hall until the class period is nearly over. 

She feels good about the audition, though – as good as she can without anyone’s waiting reassurance. Jen usually defaults to thinking of auditions as dance competitions, since she has more experience with the latter. The big difference is, mere seconds after the music stopped in a competition, Jen could walk offstage and straight to Ms. Bryant and her critical eyes, gauging how she’d done based on her instructor’s reaction. 

Jen hadn’t experienced this type of closed audition until she was applying to schools last year. She’d felt good about all of those, too – including the audition at Juilliard, the only place she was rejected. 

All summer, she’d kept herself awake at night, teeth grinding and brain churning over the two and a half minute solo that got her cut. Multiple times, she’d just barely talked herself out of showing up at Juilliard and asking to see the videotape of her audition – dignity won out over obsessive self recrimination, but Jen had still hated knowing that the tape existed, evidence of what she did wrong that she would never be able to see it for herself.

Jen tries to put thoughts of all auditions, today’s included, out of her head on the walk back to her dorm. Judy comes straight home from her painting class, eager to hear how it went, and Jen tries to sound certain when she says they did well. 

But Judy obviously picks up on the undercurrent of Jen’s doubt – her voice is a little too gentle when she says, “You were _great_ , I know you were. You guys were perfect in every video I saw.” She studies Jen for another moment, head tilted in concern. “Do you really not feel good about it?” 

“No, I do. Or I _did_ , right after we finished. But that’s not necessarily reliable.” Jen’s jaw feels tight; she unclenches it. “I _felt good_ about my Juilliard audition. So.” 

She doesn’t like the way Judy’s eyes go soft at the edges, like Juilliard is still something to feel bad for her over. Jen rolls her eyes and adds, “I mean, it worked out. I don’t still, like, wish I could have gone there. But it was still an audition I _felt_ _good_ about but actually fucked up.”

Judy makes a face at her. “I’m sure you didn’t _fuck up_.”

Jen’s sitting on her bed, and Judy’s perched herself on top of Jen’s desk, so she’s looking _down_ at her, expression thoughtful. 

“But you would have gone to Juilliard, right? If you’d gotten in.” 

“Yeah…” Jen frowns, not liking the turn of conversation. She gets up from the bed, turning her back to Judy so she can kneel in front of the minifridge and grab the first thing she sees – a pack of string cheese – and tear into it. “So?”

 _“So.”_ It’s nice to hear the familiar smile in Judy’s voice; Jen turns to look at her. “I don’t think you fucked up the Juilliard audition. I think you didn’t get it because that’s not where you were meant to be.” 

Jen rolls her eyes, climbing back onto her bed and stretching out. “Kinda sounds like my Aunt Susan’s _everything happens for a reason_ bullshit.” 

“I don’t mean it like that...even _you_ just said it worked out, and you’re glad you didn’t go there. So, okay: how many schools did you audition for?” 

“Five,” Jen answers immediately.

“And how many did you get into?” 

“Four.” 

“See? Juilliard’s the only one you didn’t get, because it’s the only one you would have chosen over here.” Judy grins at her. “And the universe knew you’re supposed to be here.” 

Jen scoffs at that, but she’s holding back a smile. “Even if the _universe_ somehow thought so, I don’t think the fucking Juilliard admission board had any idea. They just rejected me for boring earthbound reasons.”

“Well, then they’re idiots,” Judy says firmly, surprising a laugh from Jen. “I’m sure you were incredible. At Juilliard _and_ today.” 

Instead of answering, Jen bites off half the cheese stick, not bothering to pull it off in strings. 

Judy’s eyebrows hitch. “Aren’t we going to get dinner soon?” 

“Couldn’t wait, I skipped lunch.” Cutting off whatever reprimand is coming alongside the admonishing look Judy's giving her, Jen explains, “Was too nervous to eat, don’t give me shit about it.”

Judy sighs at her. “You could have _fainted_ or something. In the middle of the audition!”

“I had like a handful of coffee beans.”

“Ah.” Judy nods sagely. “Explains why you’re all twitchy.” 

“I’m not _twitchy.”_

Defiantly, Jen eats the rest of her cheese stick before going with Judy to the dining hall, and she mostly allows herself to be distracted from audition obsessing for the rest of the night. 

She’s not expecting to hear anything until Thursday, at their next choreography class, but on Wednesday morning, when they’re spread out and chatting during cool downs, their contemporary instructor announces that her assistants will be passing around their evals. 

Jen’s blood starts moving faster, bubbly with nerves and anticipation. She holds her stretch – bent at the waist, torso inches from the floor between extended legs – while her eyes track the two assistants and their stacks of paper. Matthew’s between her and Audrey on the floor in a complicated cross legged stance, and he gets handed an evaluation first. Jen’s gaze locks onto him; his whole face brightens with a sudden, relieved grin, but she can’t see the paper to know whether he’s looking an evaluation for his performance with Jen or Audrey. 

Time stretches out for the twenty seconds it takes for a paper to be waved in front of Jen. She pops up out of the stretch and takes it; for a second, everything on the page is a blur, her vision trying to take it all in at once, but as soon as Jen slows down to actually read it the first time, her ever muscle relaxes. Reading it the second time, a thrill sings through her whole body. 

Top marks on every chart, save for “Difficulty” category in regards to their original choreography, which is notched at “Good” rather than “Exceptional”, but the instructors never give a _perfect_ chart, and this is as close as Jen’s seen all year. She barely takes in the cramped scrawl of comments from their instructors, just focused on the bold A+ at the bottom of the sheet and the tower of check marks beneath Exceptional in every Technique and Performance category. 

Matthew catches her eye and grins, miming what might be his version of spiking a football. Jen smirks at him, growing comfortable with her returning confidence. The assistant instructors are still milling around with their last few sheets of paper, so Jen leans back on the heels of her hands and waits. 

Finally, the assistants return to the front of the room with Miss Rice, who claps her hands twice to get their attention. 

“We were all impressed with your performances...for the _most_ part,” she pauses, sweeping the room with her eyes, letting them land critically on a few exceptions who aren’t Jen. “– you have all made great progress throughout choreo this semester, and as your grades largely reflect, you have every reason be pleased with yourselves. However, we could only choose one duet to be performed at the recital, so congratulations to Matthew and Audrey.” 

It’s so fast, no dramatic pause or fanfare. Shock slides through Jen like a knife dipped in anesthetic, numbing her to the immediate damage. 

For all her worrying, when it came down to it, she really hadn’t been expecting to lose. 

Traitorous, her eyes flick to Audrey, the first time Jen’s looked at her since the evaluation sheets appeared. Even in her peripheral vision, she can make out the triumphant glee all over Matthew’s face, but Audrey doesn’t seem excited. Or surprised. She’s sitting there with an annoyingly serene expression, like her victory is nothing out of the ordinary. 

It’s exactly how Jen used to play moments like this, too. Back when she actually fucking had them. 

Jen already hates both Audrey and Matthew when she remembers that not only is she going to have to congratulate them in about thirty seconds, but routine dictates she’s about to walk with them to the dining hall and endure forty minutes at a lunch table. 

She grits her teeth, already preparing a chipper _congrats!_ , holding it on the tip of her tongue in the hope of soaking up all the bitterness before she has to say it out loud. 

When Miss Rice dismisses the class, Jen inhales a steadying breath between her teeth and turns to face her friends. Matthew has his arms locked around Audrey, pinning hers to her side, and is bouncing around in a celebratory circle she doesn’t seem inclined to participate in. She rolls her eyes at Jen, long suffering. 

“Congrats,” Jen says. She is holding her face perfectly still and in control, determined not to reveal that she gives a single shit about this. 

“Thanks,” Audrey replies simply. She manages to free an arm enough to jab her elbow into Matthew’s ribs. _“Okay,_ drama queen. Give it a rest.” 

Matthew stops jumping around and makes an overly visible effort to stop smiling. 

“Sorry, Jen,” he says, making a sad face. “I think I screwed us, my turn outs were super shitty.” 

There’s no way Matthew actually believes that, and the fact that he’s being _generous_ to her cues up Jen’s first rush of fury. She swallows it down, forces herself to roll her eyes and say, “Shut up, no they weren’t. We got the A, that’s the important part.” 

“Totally,” Matthew agrees, even though there’s no way he – or any of them – believes that, either. He holds up both evaluations, side by side, making a show of them. _“Apparently_ , ladies, we are all extremely fucking exceptional.” 

It’s a tiny, humiliating relief when Audrey looks over Matthew’s shoulder to check out their evaluation. Jen wants her to see it, to know they came pretty close to perfect. 

“Nice,” Audrey says when she looks up from the page, directing it at Jen along with a crisp, businesslike nod.

Jen ignores that. “C’mon, we better go. Judy’ll be waiting.” 

“Yes, please, I’m starving,” Matthew says. “And I’m treating myself to dessert bar cookies.” 

Jen’s overly talkative and jokey during their walk to the dining hall, all manic effort to make it clear she’s _just fine, thanks._ She only shuts up when they get close enough to see Judy, perched on the brick flower beds that surround the dining hall entrance waiting for them. The sight of her gets Jen worried that Matthew is about to skip right up to Judy to announce his and Audrey’s good news, while Jen has to stand there and watch her congratulate them. 

Fortunately, though, Matthew restrains himself from bringing it up, but even the thirty tense seconds of routine greetings are enough for Jen to realize she can’t actually sit through lunch right now. Even if no one mentions the audition, just knowing that Audrey and Matthew will be sitting across the table, privately smug on their win but keeping quiet out of pity, is pretty much unbearable.

They swipe their student IDs to get into the dining hall and split up as usual, heading to different food stations; Jen checks that Matthew and Audrey are a safe distance away at the salad bar, then follows Judy to the DIY pancake/waffle counter – she’s never on campus early enough for actual breakfast on weekdays, so she tends to have it for lunch or dinner once or twice a week. 

“I need to leave,” Jen says bluntly as soon as she’s sidled up to Judy’s side.

Judy looks a little startled, both at the declaration and Jen’s sudden, unannounced proximity. “What? Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere. I don’t know. I’ll just eat something in the dorm. I just need a good excuse...what’s, like, an emergency we could say I have?”

“An emergency?”Judy blinks at her, bewildered. “I don’t understand, did something happen?” 

Jen sighs, eyes flicking past Judy’s shoulder to scan their immediate surroundings once again before she admits, “I didn’t get the performance spot. Matthew got it with Audrey.” 

Judy’s whole face melts into sympathy. “Oh, no, Jen...I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine – “

“You deserved that, you’ve been working so hard – “

“It’s fine,” Jen repeats, firmer now. “Really, but...we just found out, and they’re being fucking arrogant about it, and I...I can’t take sitting through a whole lunch of the bragging or I’m going to say something I really shouldn’t, so. I need an emergency.” 

Expression very serious, Judy nods. “Okay. I’ll think of something. And I really am sorry.” 

“It has to sound real,” Jen tells her, ignoring the condolence. “I don’t want them to know I’m avoiding them, this whole thing is embarrassing enough already…”

“You shouldn’t be _embarrassed,”_ Judy insists, but before Jen can argue, her eyes flare with excitement. “Ooh, wait, okay I think I... _yeah,_ I definitely have a plan.”

“Great. What am I saying?” 

“You don’t have to say anything. Just go get food and sit down for like two minutes tops, and I promise I will handle the exit.” 

“You can’t just take five seconds to tell me what you’re going to say?” 

“I think it’ll be more believable if you don’t know.” 

“Oh, God…”

“It’ll work, I swear! Maybe get food you can pack up and take with you, though, we shouldn’t waste a whole lunch.” 

Jen huffs skeptically, but she does what Judy says, even though she probably could have convinced her to reveal the plan with another thirty seconds of wheedling. Instead, she crosses to the fast moving sandwich line and throws some turkey between two pieces of bread, not bothering to get more elaborate than that.

She beats Judy to the table, but that’s maybe on purpose. They don’t have a designated table, but always sit in the same general area, in the same arrangement. Jen sets her pitiful lunch plate down across from Matthew, next to Judy’s empty seat; Matthew’s mid-lament about having to break it to his roommate that he doesn’t want to live together next year, but Jen only has to listen for less than a minute before Judy appears, hands full with a plate for her waffles, a small bowl of fruit, and a red plastic cup of water, no ice, which she promptly spills down the front of Jen’s leotard.

Jen yelps, genuine, and a little louder than she’d have liked. Matthew pushes his chair away from the table, legs squeaking hard on the floor, even though he’s nowhere near the splash zone. 

“Oh my God!” Judy’s eyes widen. “Sorry, I’m sorry... _shit._ Here…” With frazzled hands, Judy passes Jen a thin, messy pile of napkins. “I’ll go get more!” 

Jen’s so dumbstruck by Judy’s performance it takes her a second to remember she’s supposed to be part of it. 

“Uh, no, that’s okay, I...I’m just gonna run back to the dorm. If I don’t change I’m gonna be sitting in a fucking wet leotard for all of Weather and Climate.” 

“Are you sure?” Judy asks, voice shot through with distress. _Fuck,_ she really is good at this. “I can go to the bathroom for paper towels, and also you could take my jacket – “

“It’s fine, Jude. It’s a ten minute walk, I think I’ll be fine. I’ll just wrap this and...” She trails off, pathetic sandwich in hand; she’d been reaching for a napkin, belatedly remembering they’re all wet now.

“Here.” Audrey hands over a few clean napkins from her own tray. 

“Thanks.” Her eyes skate from Audrey to Matthew. “See you guys later.” Less than three hours later, for History of Dance, the last class of the day. “You, too.” Judy looks up at her, still playing remorseful, and Jen tugs playfully at the little braid falling across the corner of her eye. “Thanks a lot, klutz.” 

The corners of Judy’s mouth twitch. She flattens then into a grimace. “I’m really sorry.” 

“I know,” Jen says in an exaggerated, martyred tone. 

She walks off with her shirt dripping wet, holding a sandwich wrapped in Audrey’s napkins until she dumps it into a trash can right by the dining hall entrance. She grins to herself, mentally replaying Judy’s performance, which really was _shockingly_ convincing, award worthy even. Judy gets back to the dorm before her on Wednesday afternoons, and Jen’s thinking about leaving a note for her to find, thanking Judy for the save and claiming she’s off to steal Jodi Foster’s Oscar for her. 

She’s nearly halfway back to the dorm before Jen remembers why she ditched lunch in the first place.  
  


+

Judy really doesn’t enjoy asking co-workers to cover her shift. 

So far she’s only had to do it over school breaks, with plenty of notice – never last minute like this. She only feels okay calling Fiona to ask because Judy’s covered for her a few times in the last month, and Fiona’s said she owes her one. 

She tries calling after lunch, at one of the pay phones in the student union, but doesn’t get an answer until she tries again after photography. She has to lie – Judy doesn’t enjoy that, either, even if she’s sorta done it a lot today – and say she’s got an exam tomorrow that she doesn’t feel great about it and thus could really use the extra study time but _only_ if Fiona is really free.

It works, either because she owes Judy or she’s sympathetic to the studying excuse – Fiona’s twenty-three and always reacts to any mention of Judy’s college life with a sighing nostalgia, but that’s not why Judy made up the study thing. She just didn’t think Jen would want anyone, even a total stranger, hearing that she wasn’t picked for a performance. 

Judy’s just glad she has the night free now, so she can hang out with Jen and, if possible, cheer her up. She’s been worrying since lunch; Jen will probably downplay it again, but Judy knows how important that audition was. She hates thinking about how Jen must be feeling right now.

There’s a note on Judy’s desk when she gets back to the dorm. 

_Thanks again for the performance at lunch, might be late getting back after class since I’m gonna try to steal Jodie Foster’s Oscar...you deserve it more. Might need to look up who else has an Oscar to help my chances of getting one. Best Actress only, though, none of that “supporting” shit._

_Seriously, though, thank you for that._

Judy smiles down at the page, happy to see Jen making jokes. She folds the paper in half, making the crease below Jen’s writing, planning to stick it in her desk drawer to save until she notices the back of the note is a dance evaluation – a really, really good one. 

She leaves it on Jen’s desk. 

When Jen gets back from class, Judy’s sitting on her own bed, only half focusing on her reading for class while a mixtape plays. She looks up from her textbook and meets Jen’s eyes, trying not to go too immediately sympathetic with her smile. Instead, she lets it fade into feigned confusion and asks, “Um, where’s my Oscar?” 

Jen smirks. “Jodi had pretty heavy security, I’ll have to go for someone else’s. Who won last year?” 

“No idea.” 

“Me either. I think Kathy Bates has one?"

“Impressive considering her side career as Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s manager.” 

Jen grins. “Good point. Which reminds me, _you_ should know this shit. You’re basically from Hollywood. I could tell you most of the Tony winners of the past few years.” 

“So steal me a Tony.” 

Jen sits on the edge of her bed, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I mainly remember the Best Performance in a _Musical_ winners. You were very convincing, but you didn’t sing. Doesn’t seem fair to take Glenn Close’s Tony for that.” 

“That’s fair,” Judy agrees. “But I do think randomly breaking into song might have given it away.” 

Jen’s smile fades a little. “You didn’t, um...when Audrey and Matthew told you, you didn’t say you already knew, right?”

“They actually didn’t mention it,” Judy says. She’d been kind of surprised by that, based on what Jen had said about them bragging. “I wouldn’t have said anything if they did, though...I know that could have given it away.” 

“Thanks.” 

Jen’s voice is quiet, now, drained of all levity, so Judy figures it’s okay to soften her own, gently offering, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Jen’s shaking her head before Judy’s finished her sentence. “Nah.” Jen bends over, reaching for something under the bed. When she sits up again, her fist is clutching around a bottle of Smirnoff. “But I do wanna _drink_ about it.” 

+

They talk about it anyway, when the vodka is an inch or two lower and Jen starts ranting. 

“Fucking _Matthew,”_ she says heatedly. “I fucking _wish_ I could see the tape, his shitty turn outs probably ruined it for us. It was stupid to pair up with him, I shouldn’t be basing this kind of thing on who I’m fucking _friends_ with anyway.”

“But didn’t you say Matthew’s the best guy dancer in your year?” Judy points out. They’re both on Jen’s bed, backs against the wall, Smirnoff bottle propped between them.

Jen’s face turns scornful, as though offended to hear her own words repeated back. “He’s _one of_ the best, I guess. Not that there are even that many of them. Spencer's basically just as good, and I let Matthew have too much of a say in the choreography. Wouldn’t be surprised if he half assed it on purpose…”

Judy frowns, pouring more vodka into the bottle of Sprite she got from the vending machine. “I don’t think Matthew would do that...he wanted the performance slot, too.”

“Yeah, but he had _two_ chances.” Jen takes the vodka from Judy and takes a sip straight from the bottle. “And he’d rather get it with Audrey.”

“Maybe…” Judy says, trying to be diplomatic. “But he likes contemporary better, right? So he’d have probably rather performed the dance you guys did.” 

Jen scowls at her. “I’m sorry, did the devil hire you as an advocate?” 

Judy curls her lips inward to keep herself from giggling. “Is Matthew _the devil_ in that scenario?” 

“Yes,” Jen says, impressively firm even though her words are starting to slur. “Actually, no, _Audrey_ is the devil.”

“Audrey’s our friend.” 

“Okay, but I’m serious, she’s actually psychotic. Did you know she doesn’t eat snacks? Ever? Literally _just_ fucking coffee beans, all day long...caffeine and no calories. _Psychotic_ , Jude.” 

Judy frowns, thinking. “Didn’t you say you had coffee beans before the audition yesterday?” 

Jen sighs. “Yeah, I got them from _her._ ”

“Ah.”

 _“And_ her parents buy her a new pair of pointe shoes every fucking week,” Jen adds with a derisive snort. “So _that_ must be nice. And helpful. Not that she needs it. The whole department favors ballet, they’re so obvious about it...it’s fucked up. We shouldn’t even be competing for _one_ slot, especially in fuckin’ _choreography_.”

“That really sucks,” Judy say vehemently, quick to follow this particular direction of Jen’s anger. “And see, it’s like you were saying before...it wasn’t just about how well you did. They probably just wanted another ballet thing for the recital. It’s totally unfair, but it has nothing to do with _you_. Even if you were perfect...and that grade sheet kinda makes it seem like you were.” 

Jen cuts her eyes sideway. “You read my evaluation?” 

“It was on the back of _my_ note,” Judy reminds her, nudging her shoulder against Jen’s and leaving it there. “Did _you_ even read your evaluation?” 

“Yeah.”

“So you definitely read that it was a _captivating, fresh performance that displays a true gift for emotional interpretation and_ \- “

“Oh, so you _memorized_ my evaluation.” 

“Kinda.” Judy turns to look at Jen, tilting her head and leaning against the wall. “I just had a feeling you might need to be reminded how good you are. From experts, though, not just me.” 

Jen’s mouth curves into a small, slow smile. “Thanks. I like hearing it from you though.” 

Warmth sparks in Judy’s chest, and she smiles back. They’re both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft tap of Jen’s fingers, absently piano-keying the mouth of the Smirnoff bottle, leaning crooked in her lap. 

Jen finally breaks the silence. “You know who I really understand right now?” 

“Hmmm?”

“Tonya Harding.” 

“Oh.” Judy makes a sad face. “She’s very troubled.”

“She’s a _badass,”_ Jen counters, loud and declarative. “You know everyone wants to do something like that to their biggest and most annoying competition, they just don’t have the balls.” 

“She didn’t do it herself,” Judy reminds her.

“Right, because she has really loyal friends.”

“Wasn’t it her ex-husband?”

Jen doesn’t appear to hear her. “What if I asked you to attack Audrey for me? Nothing insane, just stomp on her toes or something before the recital. You could make it look like an accident.” 

Jen says it so casually, and the booze is making Judy’s head so hazy, that for a second she can’t be entirely sure Jen is kidding. But then there’s a second where Jen slips up, a sly smile streaking through her eyes.

“Sure,” Judy says, with a tone and accompanying shrug to match Jen’s nonchalance. “If you want. I’ll go over there right now...give me your tap shoes.” 

_“Wow_ , Judy. I can’t believe you...Audrey’s our _friend.”_

Judy tries to elbow Jen in the ribs, but she squirms away, laughing. Judy's smile goes giddy at how happy Jen sounds, even if it’s mostly the vodka. She hadn’t expected much laughing tonight. 

“You know,” Judy teases. “You and Audrey would actually make a really good Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan...next Halloween, maybe?” 

Jen stares at her with her mouth hanging open. “I think that’s the most insulting thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

_“You_ just said Tonya's a badass!” 

“I know, I’m talking about me doing a fucking _couples_ costume with Audrey _.”_

Judy laughs, and Jen joins in for a few seconds before she pulls in a sharp, gasping breath. “Oh my God!”

The laughter dies cold in Judy’s throat. “What? 

Jen grabs her arm with both hands, eyes rounded with horror. _“Shit,_ Judy, it’s Wednesday!” 

Judy frowns, confusion trickling through her. “Uh huh…?”

“You’re supposed to be at work!” 

_“Oh.”_ Judy smiles, understanding. “It’s okay, I called out this afternoon. Fiona’s covering me.” 

Jen’s shoulders slump in relief. “Okay, good. Jesus, for a second I was like _fuuuck.”_ She drags out the word, then meets Judy’s eyes and softens. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

Judy waves it off.

“But, y’know. Just. I’m glad you did.” 

They drink more, too much to feel like walking down to the dorm’s dining hall, so they cobble together a pitiful dinner from the snacks in their room and eventually stretch out on Jen’s bed, watching TV with glazed eyes and buzzing heads. Judy keeps sneaking glances at Jen, checking that she’s still okay.

The TV remote is resting on Jen’s chest, rising and falling as she breathes, and when _90210_ cuts to a commercial break, Judy carefully takes it and mutes the television. Jen moves nothing but her eyes, tracking sideways to give her a questioning look.

“You know how we have the auditorium this weekend?” 

“Uh-huh.” Jen had gotten permission for them to go in on Sunday afternoon to get the stage shots for Judy’s photo series assignment. 

“I’ve been thinking...it’d be really cool if you and Matthew would do your duet there. For the shoot, I mean.” 

Jen heaves a sigh. “You’ve _been_ thinking that? Or you came up with that tonight to make me feel better?” 

“I’m not trying to make you feel better!” Judy protests, not admitting that she _did_ just come up with it tonight; in the past five minutes, actually. “I just really want to see it.” 

“You’ve seen it a hundred fuckin’ times on the rehearsal tapes, Jude.” Jen’s eyes flash and then harden. “Lotta good _that_ did…” 

Judy’s stomach sinks. She messed up, bringing it up at all right now. 

Quickly, she adds, “Yeah, but I want to see it on a stage. With the outfit you auditioned in and everything.” 

For a long moment, Jen doesn’t answer.

“Please?” Judy says softly. “It’s a favor for me, not you. I swear.” 

“Alright,” Jen finally says. “But only if _you_ ask Matthew.”

“I will...I can even tell him I’d asked you last week. Before you guys found out.” 

Jen cracks a tiny smile at that. “Good idea. And now that I know how good of a liar you are…” 

Jen’s expression shifts to one of panic, mimicking Judy's dining hall performance.

_“Oh, no, I can’t BELIEVE I spilled that! Here, take my jacket, take a hundred paper towels, I’m so so so so so sorry…”_

She keeps going, over top of Judy’s laughter. 

+

Jen’s hungover for her morning dance classes on Thursday, those four hours a harsh reminder of why they don’t usually drink on weeknights. Only pride keeps her from staying in bed and skipping; a no show would look like she’s upset about the audition, so Jen drags herself to the studio with a pounding headache and the feeble hope that the aspirin kicks in very soon. 

They’re starting to work on routines for the recital, the ‘freshman showcase’ that’s still all group numbers, no further opportunity to stand out. It doesn’t do much to quell Jen’s resentment, but she at least feels settled into her fake friendliness with Audrey and Matthew. 

They’re on the floor, stretching through cool downs at the end of Contemporary, when Audrey, who’s stretched over her extended legs and holding her toes, looks up at Jen and casually asks, “Hey, would you wanna go to Aroma after this?” 

Jen squints at her, taken aback. “Why?” 

Aroma is a cafe near campus, and every once in awhile they forgo the dining hall to walk to Aroma instead, as it’s one of the few places quick enough and close enough to get lunch between classes. But that’s only on their usual Monday-Wednesday-Friday routine. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Judy’s in class during their break, the three of them just do their own thing. 

Audrey rolls her eyes like _Jen’s_ the one being weird. “It’s lunchtime? I’m hungry? They have food there? Do I need to keep going...?” 

Jen would never admit this to Audrey, but she's actually planning to go to the dining hall alone and get the greasiest, least healthy food option available to soak up last night’s residual alcohol. 

She glances at Matthew, uncertain if he’s included in the proposed plans, and says, “You guys go ahead, I was just going to get something quick at the dining hall.” 

“Is it cool if I come, then?” Audrey presses. “He’s meeting up with Preston.” 

Jen has to swallow a groan. She and Audrey _never_ hang out one on one, so this is probably her attempt at some kind of conciliatory, 'gracious winner' conversation. Jen would have thought Audrey was better than that, but if she’s determined to have it, there’s no point putting it off. 

“Actually, fine, let’s go to Aroma,” Jen says grudgingly. 

“Aw, look at you two having a lil lunch date,” Matthew coos mockingly. 

Jen gives him the finger, Audrey jabs his ribs with the toe of her ballet flats.

At Aroma, they get their food at the counter and manage to snag two leather chairs when a couple of students drinking only coffee start packing up their textbooks to leave. Jen’s glad about it, thinking it’ll make it easier to cut this short than if they were sitting at a table. She settles in and braces herself for the impending _no hard feelings_ talk, but then Audrey catches her off guard for the second time today.

“Are you into anyone right now?” 

Jen stares at her. “What?” 

“You know what I mean. I don’t want to ask, like, _do you like a boy?”_ Audrey delivers the last part in a high, simpering voice, apparently to indicate the immaturity of such a question.

“Why would you ever need to ask that?” 

“I’ve just been thinking. Matthew and Judy are both with guys – “

“Judy’s not _with_ Ian.” 

Audrey sighs impatiently. “Whatever. Judy’s _getting laid_ , so she’s better off than me. And you. Which is my whole point. Shit’s about to get really busy with evening rehearsals, but I don’t want to end freshman year with zero action. And I thought maybe you don’t, either.”

“Uh, I know Matthew called this a date, but you’re _really_ not my type,” Jen says dryly, earning a withering look in response. “And anyway, how do you know I haven’t had any ‘action’?” 

Audrey arches a skeptical brow. “Have you?” 

Jen thinks briefly about lying before remembering she doesn’t have to. “Yeah. Over Thanksgiving break.” 

Audrey scoffs. “Oh, so with someone you went to high school with? Five months ago? Fucking _score.”_

Scowling, Jen asks, _“What_ did you say your point was?” 

“There’s this guy in my dorm. Ethan. We’ve sat together in the dining hall a few times. I’m thinking about having sex with him.” 

“Fucking _score,”_ Jen parrots back, lightly mocking. 

“He’s got a cute roommate,” Audrey continues like Jen hadn’t spoken. “So what I’m thinking is, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, we could all hang out together. Get drinks. Maybe food or a movie, but definitely the drinks.” 

“You want me to go on a double date with you?” 

Audrey makes a face. “I probably wouldn’t _call_ it that, but sure, whatever.”

“Why do you need me for this?” Jen asks. “If you want to fuck some random dude in your dorm, can’t you just wander up to his room and do it? Or just go out with him alone?” 

“I don’t want it to have too much of a _date_ vibe,” Audrey explains. “Casual group hang feels easier. Plus if I bring a date for Mitch I won’t feel as bad kicking him out of his room for awhile if things go well.” She smirks. “Maybe things go _really_ well and you can take him back to _your_ room.”

Jen has a sudden, unwelcome flash of Ian, leaning drunk and slimy against their door frame last weekend. 

“Fine,” she tells Audrey. 

Fuck it. Why _not_ go on a low effort date, letting Audrey do the hard part of picking a guy. If nothing else, it will cement the image that Jen is perfectly cool with her, not at all jealous of the recital performance. 

“When did you say we’re doing this?”

“Tomorrow. Hopefully...I’ll ask Ethan tonight, find out if they’re into it.” 

Jen gives her an incredulous look. “So you brought me here for this whole pitch and you don’t even know if they’re interested?” 

“Please, you were the much harder sell here,” Audrey says. “They’ll say yes. Might just have to adjust their schedules.”

“So why are you so set on Friday?” 

“Why wait?” Audrey replies with a shrug. “But I can push for Saturday if it’s better.” 

For a second, Jen’s tempted to say yes – Judy’s got plans with Ian Saturday night. They’re going to some art exhibit that’s not even in a gallery, just some weird warehouse space; a girl in their painting class that Ian is “also friends with” has a “piece” in the “show”. 

If Jen has a date on Friday, and Judy’s hanging out with Ian on Saturday – Jen doesn’t count their plans as a _date_ since it’s connected to class – that means they won’t spend either night of the weekend together.

But then again, Jen doesn’t really feel like revolving her plans around Judy and Ian’s. 

“Friday’s fine.” 

  
  


+

Jen ends up having no further say in the date plans. By the time she arrives at the studio for Friday morning mat-work, Audrey’s consulted Ethan and confirmed a full itinerary. Matthew thinks the two of them going on a double date is hilariously quaint; he adopts an old timey affect for the entire morning, talking about how much fun they’ll have at _the_ _soda shop_ or _picture show_.

Jen hadn’t mentioned anything to Judy the night before – the fact that Jen _might_ have a date with a stranger seemed too pathetic to be considered news – so she finds out at lunch thanks to Matthew really dragging out the joke. 

“She just told me this morning,” Jen explains, when confusion flickers across Judy’s face in a way that reminds her of the New Year’s Eve round of Never Have I Ever, the last time she heard something about Jen from other people. 

After that, though, Judy’s annoyingly enthused about the date, her encouragement an unflattering contrast to Jen’s attitude when it comes to all things Ian. 

Judy sits on her bed Friday evening and watches Jen get ready, telling her she looks _gorgeous_ and _sexy_ , and there’s no way Jen’s going to return the favor tomorrow night. 

The whole thing is actually embarrassing; Jen wouldn’t mind so much if Judy was doing school work, or if she’d turn on the TV while offering occasionally commentary. Instead she gives Jen her complete and undivided attention, as if _getting ready_ for the date is its own event. Jen’s dressed casually – they’re getting dinner first, but McSorley’s is more bar than restaurant, even at seven pm – but she still starts to feel like she’s trying too hard with her tight, low cut tank top. 

“You know this is mostly just a favor for Audrey,” Jen mutters, running a hand through her hair to mess it up a little. She’s still standing in front her closet door, scrutinizing herself in the mirror; the door is half open, angled so that she can see Judy in the reflection, just over her shoulder. “I know nothing about this guy other than the fact that he’s _not_ the one she picked to hook up with.” 

Judy grins at her. She’s stretched out on her stomach, chin propped on her palm – a slumber party pose. “Maybe you guys have different types. He might be great. Turn around.” 

Jen rolls her eyes but obeys, turning to face Judy instead of the mirror. Judy tilts her head, eyes raking slowly over Jen, then stands up. 

“Hold on...” 

Judy walks to her own dresser, surveying the small collection of jewelry laid out around her incense stand. She finally selects a black satin choker with a tiny silver sunflower dangling from the center, one of her favorites. She brings the necklace to Jen, pivoting her shoulders so she’s facing the mirror again. 

“Here.” Judy brushes Jen’s hair out of the way, over one shoulder, so she can loop the choker around her neck. “Just to bring the whole look together.” 

“Great,” Jen says dryly, even as she adjusts her posture to give Judy easier access. “I’ll give it five minutes. Ten, tops. If I can tell the guy sucks after ten minutes, I’m fuckin’ walking out.” 

“He’ll probably try to follow, the way you look right now.” Judy gives her a teasing smile while two of her fingers trace the strip of exposed skin on the small of her back, between her tank top and jeans. “You’re like a blind date dream scenario.” 

The mirror means Jen can’t ignore the way her face flushes at the compliment; she fidgets away from Judy’s touch, joking, “Shut up, I’m gonna develop a superiority complex before I even get there.” 

“As you should.” Judy grins, playfully kissing the air by Jen’s ear before fluffing her hair back in place, the necklace fastened now. 

Jen turns away from the mirror and checks the clock; fifteen minutes before she has to meet Audrey – which feels like fifteen minutes she’s at risk of changing her mind, peeling off her jeans in exchange for Soffee shorts and settling in with Judy for booze and TV, the same kind of night they’ve been having for the last twenty straight weekends. 

That would be stupid. She can’t always choose to do _nothing_ with Judy over anything with anyone else. 

And it’s not like Judy’s going to be ditching Ian tomorrow night in favor of Jen and vodka and _The Facts of Life._

“I’m gonna go ahead and walk over to Audrey’s,” Jen says. “Try to force her to give me some actual information about this guy before I meet him.” 

“Good luck with that. And have fun!” 

Jen’s just relieved that there’s no innuendo in Judy’s tone.

+

On Audrey’s insistence, the guys have to come and knock on her dorm room to pick them up, like meeting in the lobby of the dorm building just isn’t good enough for her. Mitch turns out to be pretty cute – he’s actually better looking than Ethan, which Jen wasn’t expecting. Still, she’s happy to stay mostly quiet on the ten minutes walk to McSorley’s Old Ale House, letting Ethan and Audrey catch up about their weeks while Mitch makes periodic, hopeful eye contact with Jen. 

It doesn’t suck. At least, not enough for her to walk out after five or ten minutes like she’d joked to Judy. It turns out that Mitch and Ethan went to high school together, and they seem to mistakenly believe that endless tales from their shared history are interesting to anyone who wasn’t part of them. Still, they’re both nice enough, and the most entertaining part of the evening is watching Audrey feign interest, something she never bothers to do when her actual friends are talking.

Every time the conversation swings around to dance, Jen grits her teeth and readies herself for Audrey to talk about winning a _pas de deux_ feature in the upcoming recital, but it never comes up. She must have already told Ethan.

They have three rounds of drinks at the restaurant, and the conversation flows a little smoother with each one. Jen’s already started mentally workshopping an impression of Audrey in Date Mode to trot out for Judy and Matthew; at one point she tests it out on Mitch, hanging on every word of his anecdote about his perpetually hungover Poli Sci TA, but Audrey figures out what she’s doing and glowers at her when the guys aren’t looking.

They were planning to go see a movie after the bar, but conveniently, Mitch and Ethan aren’t interested in anything that’s playing. They suggest going back to their dorm to watch something from an apparently extensive VHS collection, and Audrey agrees without so much as a sideways glance to check with Jen. 

She can’t be too bothered about it; Audrey made it clear that ending up in Ethan’s dorm room to fuck him beneath his _Scarface_ poster was the whole point of the night. Jen just wishes they could skip the preamble. 

Mitch and Ethan’s dorm room is two floors down from Audrey’s, and their twin beds are bunked on one side of the room. Jen has to bite back a snarky comparison to summer camp, but it does make the room feel more spacious; they’ve got a futon on the other side of the room, aimed at a large television sitting directly on the floor, surrounded by a thicket of cords from at least three different video game consoles.

The guys ask them to choose between three different movies, all of them horror – some teen boy trick they haven’t outgrown, still hopeful any girl with get physically close to them if only a movie is scary enough. They finish off a near empty bottle of rum from Ethan’s desk drawer and watch _Pet Sematary_ ; Jen’s seen it before, and idly wonders if the mood the guys are going for will be ruined when a toddler gets mowed down by a truck, but Audrey and Ethan start vigorously making out long before they get to that part. 

Mitch has had his arm behind Jen since they sat down, letting it drape across the back of the futon without the commitment of actually touching her, but he’s apparently emboldened by Ethan’s success and makes his own move all of thirty seconds after his roommate – dropping his hand to finally cup Jen’s shoulder, leaning close and whispering, “Hey.”, and kissing her when she turns to see what he wants. 

Jen goes along with it; she's got a decent buzz going, and there’s a thrilling relief that comes from being kissed for the first time in months. Still, it isn’t long before she regains the uncomfortable awareness that Audrey and Ethan are still _right beside them –_ it’s not like there’s much room on a fucking futon. 

Jen pulls her mouth off Mitch’s and opens her eyes; they had less than a minute head start, but Audrey is already straddling Ethan’s lap, and he’s got both hands up her shirt. Barely breaking lip contact, Audrey pulls his over his head in one fluid motion – always a fuckin' show off.

“Um.” Jen nods awkwardly at them and looks at Mitch. “Should we maybe go somewhere else?” 

Mitch’s eyes light up, eager. “Sure, let’s just…” 

He stands up and Jen follows, leaving Audrey and Ethan to hook up in front of the horrors of Stephen King. Once they’re in the hallway, Mitch turns to her with his eyebrows arched. 

“Sooo, uh, should we go to your room?” 

“My roommate might be there,” Jen says. 

She doesn’t hate the idea of it, bursting into their room with a cute guy – she’s thinking about Ian again, Ian in their doorway, he hadn’t even come inside and it felt like an insult, like something she should get back at Judy for, it’s only fair that Jen shows up with Mitch. 

Except Judy would happily leave the room if Jen showed up, probably offering encouragement and congratulations and maybe even condoms on her way out.

Jen shakes her head, letting the impulse dissolve unexamined. 

“Actually, she’s definitely home by now, so. Yeah. Not an option.” 

“It’s Friday night,” Mitch points out. “Study lounge is probably empty.” 

“Okay.” 

They turn to walk down the hallway, and Mitch’s hand lands on the small of Jen’s back, the same spot Judy touched earlier. Jen tugs the hem of her shirt a little lower. 

The lounge on Mitch’s hall turns out to be packed with pajama clad students playing Twister and blasting Del Amitri on the stereo. Without protest, Jen follows Mitch to check the study lounges on three more floors. She feels a little closer to sober with every flight of stairs, and it starts to feel absurd that she’s wandering around with this stranger, intent on finding a place to make out just because they were doing it a few minutes before. Without the rum and the movie and the darkness of a boy’s dorm room, what little interest Jen had has fizzled

Jen’s relieved when the fourth lounge they check is also occupied, by a guy sleeping on the stiff couch with a baseball hat over his face, but Mitch’s expression is hesitant, like he’s trying to decide if this is close enough to empty.

Before he can suggest they just make the best of it and hope the guy doesn’t wake up, Jen blurts out, “I think I’m gonna take off.” 

Even Mitch can only manage a halfhearted attempt at protesting; he does offer to let her wait while he checks a few more floors, but he gives up easily, and Jen doesn’t get close enough for him to try to kiss her again before she leaves.

Judy’s sitting on Jen’s bed when she gets back, watching the television. She immediately turns the volume down, giving Jen a surprised smile. “Hey! You’re home early.” 

“It’s almost midnight, how is that _early?”_

“Maybe I was hoping to catch you doing a walk of shame at dawn,” Judy says, obviously joking, but Jen makes a face anyway.

“The only one doing a walk of shame tonight is Audrey.” Jen joins Judy on her bed and takes a cookie. “You should’ve seen her, she was all…” Jen makes an attempt at eyelash fluttering, and says in a syrupy voice, _“Oh, wow, that overly detailed high school lacrosse story was_ _so_ _hot_ _.”_

Judy giggles. “I’m guessing she didn’t say those exact words.” 

“Practically. And when she wasn’t talking, she had her mouth half open, like…” Jen demonstrates. _“Remember, your dick could go here.”_

“Jen!” 

“Well she _did,”_ Jen insists with a smirk. 

They’re up for another hour and a half, salvaging the Friday. Saturday night, too, doesn’t end up being the waste Jen was expecting; Judy is back from the art show barely two hours after she left, saying Ian wanted to hang around afterwards. With great effort, Jen limits herself to an eyeroll and a muttered, “Sounds about right,” because Judy already seems kind of down about it.

When Judy plops down on her bed, Jen does cautiously ask, “Did you guys make another plan to hang out?” 

Today’s plan, even a class related one, had been unprecedented, and Jen’s hoping it isn’t about to usher in a new phase of Judy and Ian’s still unlabeled relationship. 

“No...but I’ll see him in class Tuesday,” Judy says.

“Right.”

Judy looks at Jen and smiles more sincerely. “What about you? Did Mitch call?”

“Nope.” 

Judy shakes her head, incredulous. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

Jen opens her mouth to remind Judy that all Mitch is _missing out on_ by not calling is the chance to get rejected, but then a better response occurs to her.

“Neither does Ian.”

+

On Sunday afternoon, Matthew comes down to their dorm room to help carry the two lighting rigs Judy checked out from the art department and now has to lug from their dorm to the auditorium. 

They make an odd trio, crossing Washington Square Park at the center of campus: Matthew and Jen are both in some degree of stage makeup already, and though Matthew’s got a _Rent_ T-shirt and sweats thrown on over his leotard, Jen hadn’t bothered. The skirted, sleeveless black leotard looks more like a slip when she’s not wearing tights; with her hair and makeup done, she looks like she’s in the middle of the world’s most glamorous walk of shame. 

They’re also loaded down with equipment: besides the lighting rigs, Judy’s got a camera bag looped across each shoulder – Jen hadn’t noticed that the second one is her parents’ still unreturned camcorder. Jen’s already declared that her parents shouldn’t come to yet another recital where she’s only part of two group numbers, but Judy’s certain Hank and Maggie will be disappointed if the whole school year passes without them seeing Jen perform. 

Judy’s already gone with Jen to the studio to get the more stripped down photos of her warming up and rehearsing. At Jen’s insistence, they’d gone late at night, when the building was likely to be mostly empty, and still it had taken awhile for her to shake any self consciousness and go about her normal routine:

“Hey, no, don’t use that one, that stretch looks so awkward.” 

“Jen! What did I say, you’re supposed to pretend I’m not here!” 

Jen’s reflection had scowled at her. “There’s a mirror on every wall...I can always fuckin’ _see_ you.” 

The mirrors _had_ provided an extra challenge Judy hadn’t considered; she had to get creative with the angles and the lighting, but plenty of the photos had still turned out great. Still, Judy’s expecting today to be much more straightforward. They’re doing the duet first, so Matthew can take off when it’s over, and then Jen is going to run through two different solos, performing them two or three times each while Judy darts around the stage and the auditorium.

Matthew turns out to have a cursory knowledge of the lighting and sound system for the auditorium, leftover from high school drama club – “I got stuck doing tech freshman year, but practically _no_ freshman actually got cast in the musical, Mr. T was totally biased.” – and he gives Judy a quick lesson in the basics before sticking in the mixtape with his and Jen’s music on it in. They rewind so it’s playing the track before their song, giving them time to get down from the lighting booth and in their positions while Tears for Fears blasts through the auditorium. 

Jen’s already sitting on the edge of the stage waiting for them. She raises her eyebrows at Judy, coming down the center aisle past where she’d set the camcorder up on its tripod. 

“You didn’t mention you were videoing.” 

“Didn’t I?” Judy asks innocently. 

Jen makes a face at her but doesn’t protest. Matthew hops onstage and Jen stands up, following him to center stage before they space out, standing at opposite edges.

“Remember,” Judy has to shout to be heard over the music. “Even if I’m onstage with you, don’t change anything you’re doing. Pretend I’m not here.” 

Jen rolls her eyes fondly and informs Matthew, "That’s like her photography mantra.” 

Matthew grins. “Ooh, _bossy_ Judy. That’s new.” 

Judy’s face warms. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be.”

“I like it,” Matthew assures her.

Over top of him, Jen says, “You’re not good at it anyway.” 

The current song is fading out, and at the same moment Jen and Matthew’s expressions turn serious, their posture straightening. Judy double checks that she’s got the right camera lens on before easing herself up onto the corner of the stage in the beat of silence between cassette tracks.

Then, the quick, opening strings of INXS fill the auditorium, and Jen and Matthew slowly approach the center of the stage, circling each other without breaking eye contact. Anticipation rushes through Judy; she really _had_ seen the routine dozens of times in Jen’s rehearsal footage, but here, bathed in the stage lights, the intensity is even thicker. Jen and Matthew are both barefoot, Matthew in all white to contrast with Jen’s black; Jen looks striking and a little wild, with her hair down and strategically messy, and for a second Judy’s reluctant to lift the camera to her eye, not wanting to limit her view even the slightest bit. 

_Don’t ask me....what you know is true…_

The second the vocals kick in, Jen leaps at Matthew; she’d told Judy they’d wanted to start big, opening with a lift that would usually come at a more climactic moment. It proves an effective strategy: twenty seconds in and already chills are shivering on the surface of Judy’s skin.

She darts around the stage, alternately standing and sitting, testing compositions and angles even when she doesn’t push the shutter release. She doesn’t want to spend _too_ much film on this performance – realistically, she’s not sure if Matthew’s sudden presence will work in the photo series, since all the others are solely focused on Jen, though she does make sure to take several she can print, frame, and give to Matthew as a thank you. 

Still, it’s hard to stop herself from spending a whole roll of film capturing every gorgeous moment. Jen and Matthew spend half of the performance on opposite sides of the stage, moving in perfect synchronicity, their bodies like uncanny mirrors, but they’re always drawn back to the center of the stage, together. The song has several long beats of silence – it’s one of the reasons Jen said she picked it – and there’s something powerful and startling about the abrupt stillness that takes them over in those moments. 

Their audition could only be up to two minutes, so they stop after the first chorus fades and wait onstage while Judy switches out her camera lens, then jogs up to the booth and back down again to rewind the tape. Jen and Matthew run through the performance a second time, and this time Judy turns the video camera on, since she’s staying offstage and shooting from the house. 

When they finish the second time, Jen disappears backstage to change into a different outfit and put her hair up so the looks in the stage performances are distinct. Matthew offers to hang around and help with the equipment, but Judy assures him it’s fine; she can drop the lighting rigs off at the art building right after this, and it’s a much shorter walk than bringing them back to the dorm. Judy hugs him before he leaves and thanks him a few more times for helping; she’s been heaping praise since the first performance, but she waits until Matthew’s gone and Jen emerges from the wings to say the most important thing. 

“I can’t believe I’m the only person who gets to see that onstage,” she says, then smiles, patting the camcorder. “Well, me and your parents.” 

“God, you’re like their spy or something,” Jen says. “And don’t bother filming these next two, because they’re old solos they’ve seen before.”

“Seriously, though, Jen." Judy waits for eye contact, wanting to make sure she's listening. "There is no possible way anyone else’s audition was better than that. Your professors are insane.” 

Jen smiles big, then makes an immediate and visible effort to reign it is. “Yeah, I’m starting to think we went _too_ modern with it, with the song and everything. They probably like a safer, boring choice for the recitals.” 

“That’s gotta be it,” Judy agrees. “Do you want to take a break before the next one? Have a snack or something? I can run over to Hudson if you want anything from the vending machines.” 

“Nah, I’m good, let’s just keep going.” 

“Was I too in the way, on the stage the first time?” 

Jen shakes her head. “You’re fine...and I feel way less stupid than I did at the studio.” 

Judy grimaces. “Sorry.” 

“I didn’t _mind,”_ Jen assures her. “You know what I mean, it’s just less awkward when I’m running through a full routine. Easier to forget about the camera.” 

“Thank you, again, for doing this.”

“I should have been keeping a tally of every time you’ve said thank you,” Jen says dryly. “I think I actually owe you more favors at this point.” 

“You do _not._ I told you, I’m treating you to dinner when we’re done. Full wining and dining.” 

Jen looks down at the silver costume she’s wearing, tight and low cut, then arches a sardonic eyebrow in Judy’s direction. “Only if you let me change first.” 

Judy smirks. “But you’ll make such a hot date in that outfit.” 

Jen rolls her eyes heavenward. “We doing this or what?” 

Judy nods and goes trotting back to the booth to switch the tapes. 

Jen’s on pointe shoes for the second performance, and again, she runs through it twice, once for wide shots and once for closeups. They’ve got one more performance to get through, which means one more costume change, but Judy stops Jen from going backstage as soon as the second performance is over.

“I just want to try something really quick...could you do, um, _this_ kind of spinny part – ” Judy raises her arms above her head in an awkward attempt to demonstrate. “Up until where you jump?”

“Sure, only if you do it next,” Jen teases, already getting herself in position. “Right now?” 

“Hold on…” Judy sits back down on the stage, checking her angle and adjusting the camera. She lifts it to her eye, finger poised. “Okay, _now.”_

Jen lifts up on one toe and spins, her other leg bent at the knee. Judy wanted to get a few shots with a slow shutter speed, hoping to catch the trail of movement. It’s almost a shame, to reduce Jen’s dancing to a still image. Judy remembers thinking the same thing when she was working on the painting of Jen last semester; it’s why she ended up veering into a more surreal style. 

Jen’s body, when she dances, becomes something tidal: powerful and never tiring, all fluid movements that rise and fall across a stage. Judy will never be able to fully capture that, but she’d tried, in that painting – it came out looking like Jen was conjuring an ocean. 

Jen lands a jump and straightens up, looking at Judy expectantly. “Good?”

Judy hesitates, and Jen must notice because she quickly adds, “Here, I can do it again.” 

“Sorry. Last time, I swear.”

Jen repeats the quick section of the dance, and Judy’s glad to have another potential motion shot. Hopefully one of them will come out artistically blurred, rather than ‘bad photograph’ blurred.

They repeat the whole process with the final number, a more musical theater style solo that has Jen wearing a red dress Judy can’t wait to see on film. After the standard two performances, Judy has half a roll of film left, and Jen is ridiculously patient letting her play around a little, repeating poses or certain moves while Judy used the lighting rigs to set up silhouetted shots, or drags the camera and tripod to the back of the auditorium to photograph Jen posing beneath a spotlight.

Judy wonders if the sudden pride she's feeling in the project is just Jen's Midas touch. Everything her sovereign confidence touches turns to gold – no matter _what_ some clearly misguided dance teachers seem to think.

+

Judy works Monday night, but she’s so eager to see how the photographs will come out she goes to Hudson Hall after her shift to develop the film. It’s nice to be in the darkroom so late, when she doesn’t have to feel anxious about making people wait outside when the red light is on. Judy can take her time, developing every roll she shot and making contact sheets of all the negatives, so she can pick which ones to enlarge. 

Even though she’s only got the small, test images to go on, Judy can already tell her final is going to make use of the maximum allowed photographs – narrowing it down to _only_ twelve might prove to be the most difficult part of this project.

She can’t wait to show Jen, and Judy spends every class on Tuesday sneaking peeks at the contact sheets, tucked safely into her bag, already working to pick on her favorites. She decides to go back to the darkroom before heading home for the day, just make a _few_ 8x10 test prints so Jen can get the full effect. 

Painting’s her last class of the day, and Judy lingers after they wrap up, showing Ian her test images; he took photography last year, though with a different instructor, and she’s been keeping him updated on her progress with the final project. 

“See, here are the ones with the motion blur I was telling you about trying.” Judy points them out on the corner of a contact sheet. “These two aren’t great, but _this_ one really has the effect I was hoping for. At least, it looks like it does, I’ll have to enlarge it to check the detail…” 

“Oh, yeah, that’s pretty sick…” Ian sounds genuinely impressed. He lifts the contact sheet closer to his face, squinting at the image. “Maybe with a little less contrast, but still. Really fucking cool.” 

Judy smiles, gratified. “Thanks! I’m not sure if it should go in the series, it might stand out too much, but I’m still really glad one of them turned out okay…” 

“Nah, Judes, you gotta put it in there.” Ian tells her. “It’ll be good for variety. And c’mon, it looks like professional dance photography. This shit could be on the cover of a theater brochure or something.”

“Really?” 

“For sure. And depending on the professor, if it’s a super commercial or marketable concept like this, they won’t mind if it’s not making some kind of statement.” 

Judy looks up from her own happy perusal of the sheet, worried. “Do you think that might be a problem? That it’s not making a statement?” 

Ian makes a dismissive face. “I mean, you’ve done well on all of Bailey’s other assignments, right?” 

“Yeah…”

“Then you’re fine. Hey, you prefer the aesthetic route. You know. Stuff that’s _pretty_ or just, like, cool to look at. Nothin’ wrong with that.” 

Judy nods uncertainly, hoping he’s right. She looks back down at the sheet, this time without the swell of pride that’s gone rioting through her every other time she looked at them today. 

Ian ends up following her down to the photo lab; Judy’s still not entirely confident with the filters and settings on the photo enlarger, so it’s lucky to have him there for advice. 

Not that the advice is the _main_ reason he comes into the darkroom with her; there’s a guy from Judy’s class developing when they first go in, but once he leaves, it doesn’t take long before Ian’s lean frame is pressing warm against her back, his head dipping low enough to kiss her neck. 

Judy shivers pleasantly at the sensation, but when his fingers come around to cup her chin, trying to turn her toward him to kiss, Judy stays where she is, murmuring apologetically, “Just a sec, when this is done…”

“C’mon, we’ll hear the timer,” he reminds her.

Judy gives in, pecking him quickly on the mouth before turning her gaze back on the development bath. 

It’s silly, but she loves the moment the image first appears on the photo paper, as if conjured by magic. It makes her think of photography as a way of stopping time, or at least preserving a piece of it. 

The egg timer dings, and Ian’s hands go loose on her hips while Judy picks up a pair of tongs and carefully transfers the photograph to the stop bath basin and resets the timer for thirty seconds. 

It’s a photo Judy had taken during Jen’s duet with Matthew, standing at the back of the stage. Matthew’s back is to the camera, facing the empty audience, but he’d just caught Jen, her legs wrapped gracefully around his waist, her head above his shoulder so she’s facing Judy, nearly making direct eye contact with the camera.

The timer goes off, and Judy transfers the print to yet another basin. 

“Here…” Ian goes to the sinks to fill a final basin with water and slides it onto the table. Judy flashes him a grateful smile, and soon the print is rinsed off so she can flick on the lights and get a good look. 

The glowing orbs of stage lights line the top of the photo, framing Jen’s head, and the effect is almost celestial; her hair looks nearly white in the lighting, the bold red of her lipstick standing out as the image’s sole shock of color. 

Judy can’t stop staring at it, her earlier nerves about the project quickly evaporating. 

It probably doesn’t take a great artist to find something _pretty_ or _cool to look at_ ; it’s _Jen_ that’s impressive about this photograph, not anything Judy did, but she doesn’t mind. Jen is Judy’s favorite thing to look at, and she loves every photo she’s taken of her, and this one is the best yet. Judy decides it’s perfectly fine if the only statement her final project is making is _L_ _ook at her!_

Ian drops his chin on Judy’s shoulder, and Judy smiles at the casual, intimate contact while he studies the photograph in her hand. 

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Your roommate actually looks pretty hot there.” 

Judy nods in easy, obvious agreement. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Just every time I’ve seen her, it’s like she just got done at the gym.”

Judy frowns, then immediately tries to stop. “She _does_ have like four hours of studio classes a day...and she works out on weekends. Sometimes twice a day. Jen’s very dedicated.” 

Ian grins pitch of his voice dipping a few notches lower. “D’you guys ever…” He flicks his eyebrows, suggestive. “Y’know.”

“Oh. Um, no.” Heat tingles uncomfortably at the base of Judy’s neck, threatening to spread, but she forces a smile; ever since she mentioned her early, first semester hook up with that girl from her art history lecture to Ian, it’s become his favorite thing to tease her about. 

“Too bad,” he smirks down at her, eyes playful.

“Here, uh…” Judy gently plucks the print from his hand, trying to shake off the weirdness of the moment. “I was gonna go ahead and get a print of the one with the motion blur, too.” 

“Alright, if you’re gonna be in here awhile, I’m gonna take off. C’mere.” He tugs gently at the hem of her skirt, bringing her close enough to kiss. Judy returns it until he pulls away. “I’ll see ya.” 

“See you,” Judy repeats. She’d been expecting Ian to invite her back to his place, but it’s better that he’s going. She still doesn’t want to wait too long to show Jen the photos.

She’s in the dark room for another forty-five minutes, so when she finally heads back to the dorm she’s got four 8x10 photographs in her bag.

Jen’s tying her shoe with her foot on the desk when Judy walks into their room; she looks surprised to see her. “I was about to go eat without you.” 

“Sorry, I was developing...I have photos!”

Jen’s features relax. “From Sunday?”

Judy nods, already pulling them out of her bag. “I only did these four...the exposure’s not exactly right, and I’m not sure about cropping – “

Jen cuts her off. _“Whoa,_ this is cool...how’d you do this?” 

She’s looking at the photo with the motion blur, Jen twirling in a pirouette. Judy grins; she’d put that one on top on purpose. “Okay, so if you leave the shutter open longer when the subject – that’s you – is moving, that can show – “

“Never mind, I’m not gonna understand it. It’s awesome, though, Jude.” She flips to the next one and her eyes widen. “Uh, whoa, again.”

It’s a photo from Jen’s performance _en pointe_ ; she’s balanced entirely on the toes of one foot, her other leg extended high in the air. 

“I’m _so_ glad I got that move at the exact right second.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever _seen_ that move for more than one second,” Jen counters. “I’m not sure if I like it.”

“Are you kidding, it’s _incredible_ that you can do that, it’s barely even human. This is your proof!”

Jen cuts her eyes at Judy. _“Barely even human_ doesn’t sound all that attractive.” 

“Personally, I find that amount of flexibility _incredibly_ attractive,” Judy says with a habitual smirk that almost instantly fades.

Ian flashes unexpectedly through her head, that sticky-sick look on his face asking about her and Jen. It makes Judy feel like she’s doing something wrong. 

Jen’s rolling her eyes, the way she always does when Judy’s banter goes flirtatious. Which is maybe a sign that she doesn’t like it and is too nice to say so. 

“Sorry,” Judy murmurs, her face suddenly warm. 

“Why are you sorry, it’s a good photo,” Jen says, misunderstanding the apology. She smirks, eyes flaring, and steps around Judy to grab the camera off her desk. “Maybe I should just get a weird angle of _your_ legs, we can hang ‘em side by side.” 

She bends at the waist, playing like she’s going to duck the camera under Judy’s skirt. Judy laughs, surprised; she flicks her hem in Jen’s face, her stomach untwisting a little, the exchange reassuring her that Jen isn’t the type to stay quiet if something made her uncomfortable, much less tease Judy back in the same manner. 

This has just become part of the way they joke around, and that means Judy isn't doing anything too bad.

+

“You know there’s fingering, right?” 

Jen, Judy, and Matthew all stare at Audrey for a moment, nonplussed, following this pronouncement. 

“Okay, I’m not sitting next to her at the movie,” Jen finally says sardonically. 

Audrey rolls her eyes at Jen from across the table. “I’m just _saying._ Abby saw it last weekend and she’s still talking about it. Said it’s crazy hot.” 

“Nothing involving _Marky Mark_ can be crazy hot.”

“Disagree,” Matthew puts in. 

“You've got terrible taste,” Jen informs him.

Judy, though, smiles at Matthew. “Is Preston coming tonight?” 

“Speaking of his terrible taste,” Audrey mutters before he can answer. 

Jen glances up from her food at that, mildly curious. Preston’s not the most exciting guy on campus, but they’ve all always gotten along, and she’s never heard Audrey express any disapproval. 

Matthew heaves a put upon sigh and announces, “We broke up.” 

Beside Jen, Judy actually gasps. “Oh no!”

“Condolences,” Jen says.

“What happened? Are you okay?” 

Matthew opens his mouth, no doubt ready to launch into the whole saga, but Audrey beats him to it, “He’s fine, he did the dumping.” 

“How come?” Judy asks, her expression and tone suggesting true love is dead.

Matthew sighs. “Well, y’all know we were having problems…” 

Judy turns to Jen with a perplexed expression, obligating her to say, “Uh, you were?” 

“Yeah like we just seem to have really different values? And it got me thinking about long term compatibility – “

“Meaning Preston doesn’t like _Rent_ enough,” Audrey clarifies bluntly. 

Jen groans. “Seriously, man?” 

“We tried again last weekend,” Matthew explains. “He still just said it was, and I quote, _pretty good.”_ Matthew pauses for effect, looking between Jen and Judy as though expecting commiserating horror. “Pretty good! So I was like, well, I’m _pretty done.”_

Jen snorts, glancing sideways at Judy. She’s frowning, looking deeply concerned for either Preston’s newly broken heart or Matthew’s sanity. 

“I just don’t think I can fully love someone who doesn’t _get_ it, you know?” 

“Audrey doesn’t really _get it,”_ Judy points out, which makes Jen smirk. 

“Yep, and I don’t love Audrey with my whole heart.” 

Audrey appears unbothered by this declaration. _“Gavin_ on the other hand…”

“Who the fuck’s Gavin?” 

“He’s a sophomore here. Film student,” Matthew says smugly. “I met him at the stage door...which _Preston_ wouldn’t even do with me.” 

“You stage door like every other weekend,” Audrey says. 

“Uh, yeah, and that’s why Anthony Rapp _literally_ knows who I am.” 

“And film students are a nightmare, why do you think we never hang out with my brother’s friends?” 

Judy looks surprised. “You have a brother who goes here?” 

Audrey nods. “He’s supposed to be a senior but he took a year off to find himself...in Europe, for some reason. Apparently it took eight months of teaching English to hot French girls for him to figure out he wants to rip off Scorsese for a career.” Her eyes slide from Judy to Jen. “I could introduce you.” 

Jen scowls. It’s not the first time this week Audrey’s offered jokey alternatives to Mitch. “Gee, thanks.” 

“Hey, he’s hardly the pride of the family but he does well with girls...and he’s much nicer than me.” 

_“Shocker.”_

Audrey smirks and takes a bite of her salad. Then, her eyes flare, attention fixed on something behind Jen and Judy. “Hey, Judy, isn’t that your guy?” 

Judy immediately twists around in her seat to look; Jen forces herself not to. 

“Ian, hey!” 

Jen’s teeth clench – _cool,_ now he’s coming over, looming above her and Judy’s side of the table. Jen flicks her eyes vaguely upward in the barest possible acknowledgement while Audrey and Matthew overlap in amused, knowing greetings. 

“I’ve never seen you in here before!” Judy says, sounding delighted at the serendipity of running into Ian at the dining hall where they both attend school.

“Yeah, I don’t really do the whole meal plan thing.” 

“And yet here you are,” Jen says, accidentally breaking her vow of silence.

“Friends swiped me in,” Ian explains lazily. He braces his hands on the back of Judy’s chair, leaning over her. “What’re you guys up to?”

Judy has to tilt her head back look at him. “Just figuring out plans for tonight...we’re gonna go see _Fear.”_

“Marky Mark’s an _actor_ now,” Matthew informs him helpfully. 

Judy smiles. “You should come!” 

Ian laughs a little. “Nah, I’m good.” 

That’s all he says, no excuse or apology. Across the table, Jen catches the slightest scrunch of Audrey’s eyebrows, but Judy’s still smiling up at him, apparently not noticing to the rudeness, especially when Ian adds, “But I’ll see you tomorrow night, right?” 

Judy nods, eager. “Yeah, definitely.” 

“Cool. Bring whoever.” He nods at the whole table, then kind of scratches the back of Judy’s head with a familiarity that makes Jen goes rigid. “I’ll be looking for you.” 

Judy beams, and as soon he’s out of earshot, Audrey leans toward her to ask, “What’s tomorrow? Big date night?” 

“And you can _bring whoever?”_ Matthew repeats. “Kinky.” 

Giggling, Judy shakes her head, “Ian and his roommates are throwing a party. You guys should come!” 

“Can I bring Gavin?” 

“We don’t wanna crash your date.” 

“Oh, it’s definitely not a date,” Judy says. “Ian’s hosting – “ Jen makes a quiet, scoffing sound at the choice of words, as if throwing a stupid house party is an important or difficult undertaking, but no one seems to notice. “– and I don’t want to be too clingy and hover around him all night. It’d actually be really great if you guys came.” 

Her gaze swivels to make sure Jen’s included in this invitation, but Jen’s the only one who doesn’t immediately speak up in the affirmative. She nods along and manages to project silent but implicit agreement to the plans until they finish lunch and split up afternoon classes. 

Judy’s already back in the dorm when Jen gets home for the day, but she’s got to rush to get ready before they meet Audrey and Matthew for pre-movie pizza, so there’s no real chance to talk until she’s showered and blow dried her hair and is putting on makeup while Judy watches from the bed. 

“Hey…” There’s a hesitance to her voice, and right away Jen knows what she’s going to say. “Are you okay with going to Ian’s thing tomorrow?” 

Jen laughs in one short, humorless note. “Not really, but I’m guessing that’s why you didn’t bring it up until we were with other people.” 

“I...I really wasn’t thinking about that,” Judy stammers. “He only told me about the party yesterday and I wasn’t sure if I was going to go, or if he really _wanted_ me to go, until lunch today. We...you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” 

“Whatever, it’s fine,” Jen mutters. She puts down her lip liner and takes a step back, checking her full reflection. “C’mon. We should probably go down.”

Judy nods and follows her, eyes big and uncertain, seeking out Jen’s every thirty seconds for the walk down the hall and then the elevator ride to the first floor. Jen tries to smile, just a quick casual flash of reassurance, but it must not be convincing because Judy still doesn’t risk talking. 

Audrey and Matthew are waiting on the sidewalk outside Franklin, and Jen’s relieved to let her and Judy’s lingering tension hide beneath their friends’ oblivious, Friday night energy. 

It’s nearly May, and daylight is staying up later, so they walk to Pizzeria Lombardo at the best part of sunset, the streets low lit and golden. Matthew’s wearing an unnecessary bucket hat he keeps taking off his own head and sneaking it onto everyone else’s, keeping up a running commentary on who among their group has a _face for hats._ Jen lights a cigarette and takes a quick, shallow first puff before passing it to Judy, a tiny, smoldering peace offering. A smile breaks across Judy’s face, laced with relief, when she takes it. 

The pizza place is packed, and the wait for a table is long even for a Friday night, so they end up taking the train two stops to the movie theater instead of walking; they still manage to duck into a corner bodega beforehand, stuffing bags of gummy bears and cans of Zima into the three purses they’ve got between them. 

Once they’re safely seated in the crowded movie theater, the rowdy, pre-trailers commotion hiding the pop of aluminum can tabs, they all set about getting buzzed as quickly as possible, which turns out to be crucial to enjoying the ridiculous teen stalker thriller. The promised and much anticipated fingering scene happens within the first half hour, but it still dominates their conversation the whole walk back to the dorms. 

“On a _roller coaster.”_

“Okay but like...imagine having an orgasm on a roller coaster.”

“If you can _give_ someone an orgasm on a roller coaster, that is not a safe roller coaster.” 

“I know I know but still... _imagine.”_

“And with _The Sundays_ playing? Why are they trying to ruin The Sundays for me?” 

“A fuckin’ _roller_ _coaster!”_

They’re all having so much fun marveling over it, even Jen is easily persuaded to keep drinking in Audrey’s dorm room. Her roommate’s staying over with some guy she’s apparently dating, so the four of them spread out across both hastily made beds and share what’s left of the whiskey Audrey brought home from a recent party. 

Jen doesn’t regret it for the first hour and a half, but then Audrey has to bring up Ian’s fucking party.

“Sooo,” she says, suddenly, out of fucking nowhere. “Tomorrow night...how about we pregame in Judy and Jen’s room before the party? If we do it here, we’ll have to invite Abby and everyone.” 

Matthew’s face lights up. “Hey, are we finally allowed to enter the inner sanctum? I live in the same building and I’ve never crossed the threshold to your room.” 

“You’re allowed!” Judy protests immediately. “Right, Jen?” 

Audrey speaks before Jen can. “Look at her face, she _really_ doesn’t want us to.” 

Scowling, Jen tells her, “I promise I don’t give a single shit if you guys want to come do vodka shots in our room.”

"Tell that," Audrey says, speaking slowly and over precise to make up for the the slur in her vioce. "To your _face."_

“Jen doesn’t really like Ian,” Judy blurts out.

There’s nothing accusatory in the voice; it’s more like she’s trying to excuse Jen’s attitude, but Jen still whips around to glare at her. 

“Ooh.” Across the room on Audrey’s bed, Matthew leans forward like this is all fun, shallow gossip. “How come?” 

Audrey looks curious, too. Judy catches Jen’s eye and shoots her an apologetic grimace, but Jen doesn’t soften her expression. 

“Because he’s a pretentious asshole,” she says in a tone of clipped finality.

“Well, duh, he’s an art major,” Audrey says matter of factly. “No offense, Judy. You’re not pretentious.”

“Or an asshole,” Matthew adds. “Like, not even a little bit.” 

Jen didn’t want to talk about this in the first place, but the quick dismissal pisses her off. She directs her next criticism at Judy alone. “He’s not even _nice_ to you.”

“That’s not true,” Judy says, tone reproachful. “You don’t really know him...and you haven’t seen us together much – “

“That’s because the only you guys even _do_ together is hook up.” 

“So what’s wrong with that?” Audrey puts in, extending her hand for the rum bottle. Judy starts to pass it over, but Jen snatches it from her first, adding another splash to her soda bottle that already heavily favors liquor before passing it across the gap between beds. “It’s like with me and Ethan. We had sex twice this week, just because I felt like it.”

“She’s been waiting to brag about that all night,” Matthew says, tone trying hard to lighten the mood. 

“And it really made realize I shouldn’t have to go through the whole date protocol bullshit beforehand,” Audrey continues. “If everyone’s having fun, why does hooking up have to lead to anything more?” 

“Because she _wants_ it to be something more,” Jen says. It comes out like an accusation. 

“Aw, Jude…” Matthew’s face turns sympathetic. “Have you told him that?”

Jen rolls her eyes and drains half her drink. They don’t get it. 

“I – no, not exactly, but, um…” Judy seems flustered and cornered. Her eyes won’t stay still. “It just kinda seems like that’s not what he wants.”

Jen makes a low, scoffing sound meant to indicate what a massive fucking understatement that is.

“But I really don’t mind,” Judy insists. “I like the way things are with him.” Her eyes meet Jen’s. “Really.” 

“Then that’s all that matters,” Audrey says, with a pointed look that makes Jen want to throw something at her. 

“That and the fact that he’s not trying to kill your friends and vandalize your dad’s car,” Matthew says with a grin.

Judy’s brows draw together in confusion. “I’ve never even met my dad.”

“Uh...”

“He’s talking about the fucking movie,” Jen mutters. 

“ _Oh_ , right.” Judy forces a laugh, all the while watching Jen with a nervous expression. 

“Okay, I don’t like this,” Matthew says with a theatrical shudder. “I’ve never seen you guys fight before.” 

“We’re not,” Jen snaps.

Audrey and Matthew swap a glance that’s probably not as subtle as they think it is, then Audrey asks, “So. Tomorrow night. What time we thinking?” 

Jen’s sulky and silent for the next twenty minutes, drinking instead of talking until everyone else apparently gets sick of pretending not to notice - Audrey declares that she’s tired, and Matthew is way too eager in his agreement. 

  
  


+

“You don’t have to go tomorrow.” It’s the first hasty thing out Judy’s mouth once the elevator doors have closed on Matthew, taking him three floors up to his own room. 

“Oh, sure,” Jen says through gritted teeth. “You already made me look like a whiny bitch in front of them – “

“I didn’t mean to – “

“– so how I am supposed to explain to Audrey and Matthew why I’m just _staying hom_ e, by myself, when all of you leave for fucking _Ian’s._ Jen punctuates the sentence by shoving her key almost violently into the doorknob.

“I...I don’t know,” Judy says helplessly, trailing after her into the room. “But...I guess _I_ don’t really even understand why you don’t want to go.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t understand why you _do_.” 

“What?” 

The light is too bright in their room. Jen didn’t mean to drink as much as she did, but right now she’s glad for it; it gives her an excuse to finally, _finally_ say exactly what she wants. 

“Just, like. Why even bother going to the party? Does he even like spending time with you when you’re not actively fucking him?”

There’s a soft, sharp intake of breath, and Judy’s eyes fill with a stunned kind of hurt. 

Right away, Jen’s stomach sickens with guilt; she tugs her shirt over her head, changing clothes so she has an excuse to turn her back on Judy. 

There’s a long, awful silence, long enough for the guilt to kindle into anger. Maybe the words were harsh, but they were also honest, and it’s not Jen’s fault if it hurts. Judy’s looking at her like Jen just pulled a loaded gun on her, like Ian isn’t the one who’s spent months handing her the bullets. 

“Do you want me to stop seeing him?” 

It surprises Jen into turning around, fast – as if she actually needs to confirm Judy’s earnest expression. Anyone else in the world asking that question, it would sound rhetorical and sarcastic and probably even furious. 

Not Judy. Judy’s just...genuinely asking.

Jen chokes on an incredulous laugh. “Jesus Christ, Jude...”

“I will,” she insists. “If it bothers you this much – “

Jen’s face heats up. “It’s not that – “

“– and you want me to end it, I will. Really.” 

Jen groans. “God, you’re actually serious…” 

“I am! If you want me to.” Judy almost sounds _hopeful,_ and Jen has the fleeting, comforting thought that Ian can’t be that important if she’s so willing to give him up. 

But still.

“That’s a stupid fucking reason.” 

Jen sits down on her bed and Judy follows, resting both her hands on Jen’s knees.

“Why? You’re my _best friend.”_ Her voice gives a reverent weight to the title, and Judy’s gaze is unshakable. “If you don’t like it, why isn’t that a good reason?”

“Because I shouldn’t have to _make_ you!” Jen says, too loud. “Fuck, Judy. You should _care_ that a guy is treating you like shit, and you should do something about it, instead of, like, _thanking_ him for five fucking minutes of attention. Don't put this on me.”

Judy’s face falls, and she has to bite her lower lip to hold it steady. “I...I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

Judy’s voice sounds so small. Jen’s eyes drift shut and she sighs. She’s so fucking tired of this. 

“I want you to stop being so fucking _desperate.”_

Silence meets that declaration, and when Jen makes herself look, Judy’s face is crumpled, tears suspended on her eyelashes. 

It’s like a kick to the chest, and Jen hurriedly looks away. 

She stands up, leaving Judy on her bed, and says, “Whatever, I’ll go to the party. I’ll even have fun. Just don’t make me talk to the guy.” 

She’s the one who sounds desperate now, a forced indifference to her tone trying like hell to pretend this is a less serious fight – pretend it’s not a fight at all, because since when do she and Judy fight? 

“I’m gonna just…” Jen grabs a few things from her shower caddy and awkwardly waves them. “Get ready for bed…...okay?” 

She needs Judy to _say_ something. 

Judy finally nods, and swallows, and says in the same tiny, miserable voice, “Okay.” 

Jen stands still for another awkward moment, hoping for more. Finally, there’s nothing to do but take her toothbrush and face wash and go, but Jen pauses at the door and says, “Look, I...I just think you deserve better. That’s my only problem with it.” 

She doesn’t wait for a response this time, just slips out into the hall and heads for the bathroom. 

Jen takes her time brushing her teeth and washing off her makeup, and when she gets back to the room Judy’s red eyed and changing into pajamas. 

“Sorry,” Judy murmurs when Jen walks by. 

“‘S fine,” Jen says, well aware Judy isn’t the one who should be apologizing. 

+

Jen’s hungover the next morning, as much from the argument as the rum, but she still gets up before Judy does and goes for a slow and pointless work out that barely progresses past stretching. 

Judy’s awake but still in bed when Jen gets back. Closing the door behind her, she takes off her headphones and says, as normal as she can, “Hey.” 

A cautious light turning on in her eyes, Judy half smiles. “Hey.”

Jen releases a slow, heavy breath; she’s been planning what to say for the last hour. “Sorry about last night – “

“It’s okay,” Judy says in a rush of relief before Jen can even get to the explanation.

“– I didn’t mean to drink so much...made me kinda bitchy.” 

“You weren’t,” Judy says, lying like she really believes it. “I’m sorry, too...I didn’t mean to put you on the spot in front of Audrey and Matthew.” She hesitates, then adds, “And about the party tonight…”

“Can we just be done talking about the party?” Jen asks. “I’m coming, it’s not a big deal.” 

“Sure. Sorry.” 

Judy seems to clam up, then, so Jen tries to think of something else to talk about. 

“You going to the studio today?” 

With classes ending in a few weeks, Judy’s been putting in extra studio hours most days, either developing in the dark room or working on her final painting assignment, so Jen’s not surprised when she nods.

“Yeah, at least for a couple hours.”

“You, uh...want company?” 

Judy’s whole face sweetens with a slow, eager smile. “Of course!” 

They’ve never acknowledged it, but Jen had stopped hanging out in the art studio once Judy started sleeping with Ian, unceremoniously abandoning the routine they’d fell into early in the semester. 

Too soon, Judy’s expression dims. “But, uh, there’s at least a _chance_ Ian could be there...just because our painting’s are due soon – “

“I know, it doesn’t matter…” She attempts a smirk. “Just as long as he’s not the one controlling the stereo.” 

They get ready and eat a quick lunch at the dining hall before heading to Hudson; mercifully, Ian _isn’t_ there, and he doesn’t show up all afternoon. Plenty of other art students do, though, a constant flood so Jen never gets a chance to put one of their tapes in the stereo. She stays perched on a window sill next to Judy’s easel, flipping idly through a thin binder that contains seventeen 8x10 photographs. She’s supposed to be helping figure out which five can be eliminated from the photo series Judy’s turning in for her final, but Jen isn’t very helpful – if it was up to her, she’d entirely cut the rehearsal photos, so Judy to forced to explain multiple times why including images of Jen wearing no make up and ratty leg warmers are a crucial part of her _concept._

Every once in awhile, when Judy laughs at one of Jen’s jokes or gives her a stern compliment about how great she supposedly looks in the rehearsal photos, Jen’s chest pinches with last night’s leftover guilt – it’s almost unfair, how easily they’ve recovered. 

Jen made Judy _cry._ It should be harder to be forgiven for that.

Still, by the time Matthew and Audrey show up at their room that night, Jen’s relieved to show off their return to total normalcy. She’s working so hard to seem fine with tonight’s plan that Jen almost ends up tricking herself, forgetting that this isn’t just any random Saturday night party. 

Her one concession to the minefield that is going to Ian’s place is being careful not to drink too much. Last night, pouring liquor over her long simmering anger had only turned it reckless and unruly, and it doesn’t feel safe risking that tonight.

Once they get to the party, it’s impossible to forget they’re in the apartment of Ian “two I’s to see the world” Isley. It’s a big enough place that he probably has roommates, but Jen chooses to attribute every crime to Ian alone, from the shitty bummer music to the wooden beads blocking every doorway to the wall of miniature movie posters, many with titles in French or Italian, none remotely recognizable. 

The walls are over crowded with art and, save for a giant Andy Warhol print, Jen suspects most of the art by Ian, for Ian – she even recognizes the “abstract” breast painting, hanging up in the fucking _kitchen_ _,_ of all places. Jen catches Audrey forcibly suppressing a laugh over a vertical column of four framed photographs, all of them black and white and self-consciously artistic: in three of them, a girl stands, barely clothed, on a rooftop with the towering city skyline behind her, while the bottom picture shows Ian on the same roof, photographed at an off kilter angle, holding a camera in one hand, expression inscrutable thanks to his dark, round sunglasses. 

Happily, there's no immediate rush to find Ian when they arrive; he spots them after about fifteen minutes and comes over with a drink refill and a side hug for Judy, but he doesn’t linger long. For the next hour, Jen can tell Judy is keeping track of him, periodically scanning the apartment and turning distracted if he’s out of sight, but whenever Audrey or Matthew prod her to go hang out with him, she deflects, usually casting a nervous glance at Jen, like she’s worried about setting her off again.

Jen feels bad about it – just not bad enough to ease Judy’s mind and join in Audrey and Matthew’s encouragement.

Jen’s taken aback by how many people Judy knows at the party – she forgets, sometimes, that just last semester Judy had a much more varied social life, including with the art crowd. It feels like she introduces Jen, Audrey, and Matthew to more than half the attendees, three of whom separately recognize Jen from photos Judy’s developed for class. 

Matthew’s apparent rebound guy, Gavin, shows up just before midnight with a roommate and suitemate in tow. He’s got shaggy blonde hair, an eyebrow ring, and a leather jacket, prompting Jen to quip in an undertone to Judy, “I don’t think their love is gonna make it to Halloween...but if it does, fucking _guarantee_ they go as the _Rent_ guys. That might even be the whole reason Matthew likes him.” 

The party is trying far too hard to be cool to have a dance floor or drinking games, but Matthew and his invited guests take it upon themselves to start a back alley game of quarters that soon draws a crowd of relieved participants to the dining nook. It even manages to get Ian’s attention, and he comes over to talk to Judy for the first time all night. Jen wordlessly joins the game as soon as he appears at Judy’s other side. The few times Jen allows herself to glance up at them, Ian appears to be droning on at Judy and Audrey – who, gratifyingly, isn’t doing a great job hiding her boredom – and possessively rubbing Judy’s back. 

Predictably, Ian wanders off after awhile, and Jen resists the temptation to point out that even the guy Matthew’s been sleeping with for a couple weeks doesn’t seem to fear the commitment of spending more than ten minutes at a time with him at a party. 

One of Judy’s photography class friends tells her people are smoking weed in a bedroom, so she and Jen follow her, reluctantly trailed by Audrey, her hatred of third wheeling Matthew apparently outweighing her hatred of secondhand smoke. There’s a small circle of people passing around a bowl, and they happily adjust to accommodate newcomers; Jen settles onto the floor beside Judy, fervently hoping this isn’t _Ian’s_ bedroom. Audrey joins them, but she sits at a deliberate remove from the rest of the circle, face set in a martyred expression; Jen only takes two hits, but both times she “accidentally” turns to Audrey, making conversation at the exact moment she’s exhaling excess smoke while Judy tries not to laugh beside her.

The weed gets Judy the most relaxed she’s been since they got the party, and Jen loosens up alongside her. The drug induced musings from the circle of art students feels a little put on – “Colors come from rainbows, right?” – but Jen knows Judy’s contributions – “Do colors really _come from_ anywhere?” – are meant with total sincerity. 

Audrey’s only ever seen Judy drunk, not stoned, and despite her disapproval of the habit, she’s drunk enough to be deeply amused at its result, laughing at almost everything Judy says and encouraging her on dreamy tangents even once the circle starts breaking apart. Jen’s even relaxed enough to head to the kitchen and refill her drink with more than half a shot of vodka before heading back to the bedroom – which she’s decided couldn’t possibly be Ian’s, not enough bad art on the walls, so Jen’s happy to wait out the party there. 

They’re all in a goofy, inebriated mood, discussing the strangeness of the color _orange,_ when Matthew comes in and drops onto the floor beside the cluster they’ve formed. 

“Hi!” Judy smiles widely at him.

“Where’s your harem?” Audrey asks.

Matthew ignores her. He’s looking at Judy, then seems to change his mind and shifts his attention to Jen. “Hey, um, I don’t know if this is like a problem, but I think maybe…” He hesitates, glancing at the nearby art students, then drags his gaze back to Judy, grimacing apologetically. “I think we should go out there.”

“Okay…” Judy swaps a confused look with Jen, who gets to her feet and pulls Judy up with her.

They all follow Matthew out of the bedroom and into the center of the party. Jen’s already scanning the living room, and she sees it the same moment Matthew says in an undertone, “Ian. Couch.” 

Ian is tucked into a corner of his sofa, a girl half draped over his lap. She’s playing with his hair, and he’s rubbing her knee in the same showy way he was touching Judy’s back earlier. 

“I’m really sorry, Jude,” Matthew tells her quietly. “But I figured you should know.” 

“It’s...it’s fine,” Judy says, her voice strung high and tight. “I mean. Thanks, it’s really sweet of you to worry, and to tell me, but, um. We’re not exclusive or anything.” 

Audrey looks at her, incredulous. “That’s still _really_ fucked up of him…”

Jen spares her a quick, respectful glance in agreement before turning back to scrutinize Judy: flushed cheeks, lips pressed tight to keep them steady. 

Jen touches Judy’s shoulder and says quietly, “You wanna go?” 

“I, I don’t know…” Judy runs a shaky hand through her hair, visibly trying to pull herself together. “No, we don’t have to – “

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Ian?” 

Startled, Jen turns back to the center of the living room, where another girl has stomped up to Ian and is hovering over him and his lap buddy. 

“We had sex FOUR HOURS AGO,” the girl snarls. “And now you’re all over _this_ bitch?” 

The first girl scrambles off Ian’s lap. “You slept with her _today?”_

“Yeah? And? You can both stay over,” Ian says, grinning for the benefit of his suddenly avid audience.

Jen looks at Judy; she seems overwhelmed, eyes pained and still locked on Ian. 

Jen’s cup is mostly empty, and she turns abruptly and grabs Matthew’s from his hand. “Give me that.” 

Something in her expression makes Matthew take a step back. “What are you gonna do?” 

“I’m gonna pour it on Ian’s hair,” Jen says, the fight rising insistently in her throat. “And then I’ll probably punch him.” 

Matthew’s eyes light up. “Hell _yes,_ take his, too.” He snatches a cup from Gavin and hands it over.

“Jen…” Judy blocks her view of the couch. “It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything.” 

“Yeah but I _want_ to,” Jen practically fire breathes the words. 

“Let her, Jude,” Audrey says in a pragmatic tone. “Might help. And it’s definitely not going to make you feel _worse.”_

Judy, though, doesn’t break eye contact with Jen. Quiet, speaking only to her, she says, “Can we just go home? Please?”

Jen feels herself nodding. She hands both drinks back to Matthew and her emptied hands curl into fists, still spoiling for a fight. 

With effort, she unclenches, touches her palm to the space between Judy’s shoulder blades. “Of course, yeah. We can go.” 

Jen leaves her hand where it is, positioning herself between Judy and Ian as they head to the door. Halfway there, she realizes the others are following, including Matthew and his guests. 

Inclining her head toward Judy, Jen tells him quietly, “She might not be up for a big crowd on the walk back…”

“Ah.” Matthew nods, understanding. “Got it, yeah. We’ll just...we can hang back, for a few minutes.” 

Audrey looks at Jen, eyebrows arching. “Want me to wait, too, or…?” 

“You don’t have to,” Jen tells her. 

They don’t talk much, on the walk back to their dorms. Jen and Judy share cigarettes, and Audrey doesn’t even make faces at the smoke. 

Jen doesn’t bother hiding how closely she’s watching Judy. She’s half hoping the high might be be cushioning the blow of what just happened, but it doesn't seem likely. Jen's walking with her arms folded across her chest, shoulders hunched and head bowed; it's like she's shrinking in on herself.

They stop at the corner in front of Audrey’s dorm building, waiting for the crosswalk to change so Jen and Judy can walk to their own across the street. Audrey hovers beneath the street lamp beside them for a moment, then finally pulls a corked, nearly full bottle of wine from her purse and holds it out to Judy.

“Here, for you...I stole it from the kitchen.” 

“Thanks.” Judy tries to smile, taking it.

“Fuck him, okay?” Audrey tells her, dead serious. “That guy sucks...and his apartment looked like he jerked off and ejaculated his ego all over the fucking walls.” 

+

“You okay?” Jen asks softly once they’re in the dorm lobby, waiting on an elevator. 

“Oh, yeah,” Judy says with another forced smile. 

Jen feels a deep tug of guilt. Judy shouldn’t feel like she has to fake it in front of her. 

“Jude, it’s okay if you’re...upset…” 

Jen has to stop talking as a rowdy group of students comes in and crowd around them, hitting the already lit up button for the elevator. She and Judy stay quiet until they’re back in their room. Judy’s avoiding eye contact as she walks a few paces to her dresser and starts slowly taking off her bracelets. 

Not sure what to do, Jen grabs the bottle of wine Audrey gave them and opens it, filling up two plastic cups from the package beneath her desk. 

“Hey, c’mere,” she says, holding up the wine when Judy turns toward her. “I kinda think we need another round.” 

Judy settles beside Jen on her bed, on top of the covers, and takes the wine. This is usually the point where they’d turn on the television or the stereo, but instead they’re stranded in the silence. 

Judy’s the one to break it, after a few sips of wine, aiming the words at her cup more than Jen. “I’m sorry.” 

Jen blinks at her. “How are _you_ sorry?“

“Cause you were right about him.” 

“I didn’t want to be,” Jen says softly, the lie stinging in her throat even though she think it’s the acceptable kind: the sort of lie that _should_ be true.

“I should have listened to you.” Judy’s voice catches. “God, I’m so stupid…”

Jen flinches. Her chest is heavy with the worst parts of herself, the parts that right now, while Judy’s upset, are still celebrating that it’s over, are chanting _I-told-you-so_ ’s, are even a little bit annoyed at Judy for being sad over that asshole in the first place. 

Tonight, at least, Jen’s able to keep those parts quiet. 

“You are _not,”_ she says firmly. _“He_ is a fuckin’ idiot, so he’s the only person we’re gonna insult here, okay?” 

Judy’s shoulders slump. “He really didn’t owe me anything...I shouldn’t have thought – “

“Nuh-uh,” Jen cuts her off. “You are not allowed to say anything else nice about Ian, got it? I don’t care if you weren’t exclusive. He invited you to a party at his place just to be, like, _one_ of his end of night options. That’s fucking gross.” 

“You’re right,” Judy agrees, her voice shaking now. A tear streaks down her cheek, and Judy swipes at it so fast it loks like a nervous tic. “Sorry.” 

“Jude…” Jen puts her wine down on the floor, then shuffles so she’s beside Judy instead of facing her. Self conscious, Jen wraps a tentative arm around Judy, stiffening slightly when she immediately leans into her, resting her head on Jen’s shoulder.

“Sorry I’m not great at the whole...comfort, hugging thing,” Jen mumbles after a few quiet moments. 

“You’re pretty good at it, actually,” Judy says, the words tired and soft but near smiling.

+

Judy has class with Ian on Tuesday, and it’s mostly just a free period for them to work on their paintings. Ian sets up his easel beside Judy’s to chat and flirt, the same as always. He doesn’t mention the party at all, and neither does she. 

Throughout class, anytime Judy has to give him a friendly response, she pictures Jen scowling and rolling her eyes. So when Ian asks her to come back to his place after class, it actually feels good to turn him down with a swift, firm, “No thanks.” that would probably make Jen proud.

Only when she’s walking back to the dorm does Judy start thinking about the surprise on Ian’s face when she said no; he’d actually thought she was kidding, like he couldn’t think of any possible reason Judy would sincerely turn him down. 

It occurs to her that Ian probably didn’t even notice she left his party; that there wasn’t even a second when he wondered if she’d been in the room to see those other girls confront him. 

Did he even remember she was _there?_

With her recital coming up, Jen has extra afternoon rehearsals all week, so Judy gets home to an empty dorm room and two hours of quiet, no distractions from the realization of how little she mattered. 

She turns on a tape she never plays around Jen, thinking maybe she should just give herself a few hours to draw this awful feeling out of herself, leaving it safely between the covers of her sketchbook. But once Judy is stretched out on her bed with the pencil between her fingers, her hand feels too heavy, her mind wiped blank as the page. 

She gives up, dropping the pad to the floor and curling up with her face half hidden on her pillow, and that’s how Jen finds her when the door flings open, bringing her home a half hour earlier than expected. 

Judy sits up and tries to wipe her face in one fast, furtive motion, but Jen’s features have already contorted in horror. 

“Holy shit…” She narrows her eyes at the stereo like it’s personally offending her. “Please tell me Ian fucking Isley has not driven you to listen to _Jewel_ right now?” 

“Sorry,” Judy says, small and pathetic. 

“Fuck, okay. Intervention.” Still shaking her head in apparent disbelief, Jen crosses to the stereo and turns off the music. “This is _not_ the way...you need something that’ll make you feel better, not worse.” 

Embarrassment burns on Judy’s cheeks, but when Jen comes and sits on the bed beside her, she manages a forced smile. “I’m really fine…”

Jen gives her a fast, searching look, and her face goes soft at the edges. “No, you’re not.” 

“I’m sorry,” Judy’s voice catches and breaks; horrified, she lays back down and covers her face with her hands, speaking in a tight, muffled voice, “I thought you’d be at rehearsal still…” 

“They finished up group stuff early. Hey…” Suddenly Jen’s hands are on hers, gently prying them away and not letting go. “You know, you don’t have to pretend you’re not sad.” 

“I just...I _shouldn’t_ feel this bad. He wasn’t even my boyfriend.” 

Jen’s quiet for a moment. Judy squeezes her eyes shut and opens them again, like she’s trying to reset herself. She doesn’t want Jen to have to deal with her, like this; not when she’s been trying to save Judy from it for months.

“What do you think’ll help?” Jen finally asks, a falsely bright note in her voice. “Want to go out tonight? We could skip morning classes tomorrow. Even if we don’t go out...we could walk to Blockbuster, rent a few movies. Pick up some alcohol. Not at Blockbuster, although they _should_ start selling it…” 

Jen trails off, checking Judy’s reaction and wincing sympathetically. “Or not. Never mind.” 

“Sorry,” Judy chokes out. 

“Here. Scoot over.” 

Judy slides toward the wall, leaving enough room for Jen to stretch out beside her, a line of warmth pressed to Judy’s side. They’re quiet for awhile. It’s nice, Jen there; they usually only share her bed, because of the television. 

“I...I thought he liked me,” Judy finally admits, the words halting and tear soaked. 

“Everybody likes you,” Jen answers.

“Maybe,” Judy murmurs, smiling thinly while her throat narrows behind it. More to herself than Jen, she softly recites, _“Easy to like, not love.”_

She feels Jen shift beside her. “What?” 

“Nothing, just...my foster mom said that, once. Not to me, she wouldn't have done that. I overheard her with my social worker.” 

Judy is always getting it wrong, mistaking kindness or polite interest for something deeper, and more lasting. It’s why she was always caught by surprise when a foster family sent her away, or when her mother took off for weeks at a time. 

“Bullshit,” Jen says, sounding angry enough that it startles Judy into looking at her. “You know that’s not true, right?”

Judy isn’t sure how to answer. 

Jen exhales sharply; she’s glaring up at the ceiling as if it’s the direction of Judy’s foster mother. “Well, it’s not. I’ve got firsthand experience.” 

Judy’s heart goes still and hopeful inside her chest. 

She turns onto her side. “You...really?” 

Jen’s cheeks flood with color. She darts a glance at Judy but quickly looks away, scowling at the ceiling now as she mutters, “Shut up, you knew that.” 

Judy didn’t. For a second, the threat of new, better tears flickers across her throat. She swallows hard, needing to respond. 

“I love you, too,” Judy says, and it comes out very formal. 

Still blushing, Jen rolls her eyes. “Great, so what’s next? Blood oath? Matching tattoos?” 

Judy’s eyes flare. “Ooh – “

 _“Kidding,_ Jude,” Jen quickly clarifies.

Judy grins, and it’s not even on purpose. “Okay. I would, though.” 

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

+

The last two weeks of the semester blur even as they’re happening, the hectic bounce between studying and rehearsing and packing. Jen suffers through another recital that leaves her anonymous in group numbers, and she can’t even skip out before Audrey and Matthew’s _pas de deux_ because apparently they’ve decided the post-recital pizza parlor is a tradition now. Judy gets an A on her photo series of Jen dancing, and passes on so many compliments from her in-class critique that she nearly convinces Jen it counts as her own accomplishment. Jen greatest triumph of the semester, though, is an unlikely artistic one: two nights before Judy’s painting final is due, Jen stays late in the studio with her until everyone else clears out, allowing Jen to freely flick splatters of orange paint on Ian’s completed canvas. 

There’s a great four days where they’re done with art critiques and dance evaluations and are waiting out one final each. For that stretch, they are untethered from clocks, always somewhere drinking with Audrey and Matthew when it’s dark out and lazing around their dorm room during daylight, filling hours with MTV and playing cards and cigarettes.

The last weekend before the dorms close, they spend two nights in Brooklyn so Judy can see Jen’s parents and drop off the stuff she’s storing in their guest room for the summer, mostly her still modest winter wardrobe and a stack of canvases. Judy spends nearly three hours with Jen’s mom looking through binders of her photography, and she gives Maggie and Hank four framed prints from Jen’s onstage photo shoot – Jen snarks that it’s all Judy’s fault if her mom turns the house into a shrine like the worst kind of empty nester. 

The dorms are technically open until Wednesday, the same day as Judy’s flight, even though all exams are over and seniors graduation is on Saturday. Matthew’s already flown back to Georgia, and Audrey’s riding with her brother to meet their parents in Cape Cod this weekend, but Jen wants those last few nights on campus. They stick around for Sunday lunch with her parents, and Jen returns from refilling her drink in the kitchen to hear her mom telling Judy, “– know you’re welcome anytime if...if your plans change. You just let Jen know, we’ll get you here.” 

“Still got some airline miles waitin’ to be used,” Hank adds. 

“Oh, I’m going to start looking for a job as soon as I’m there,” Judy assures them. “My mom’s had this place on her own for over three months already, and I told her I’ll help with the rent this summer.” She smiles at Jen, settling back into the seat beside her. _“And_ make sure the phone line stays on.”

Judy’s been talking through this plan a lot the last few weeks, both to Jen and during overheard phone calls with her mom, really emphasizing the promised financial help like it's a big part of the appeal. Judy’s boarding pass came in the mail at the end of last month – she finally bought it herself, despite lofty promises from her mother, and there’s still no return flight – and has sat on her desk for week, declaring the bold departure date, but it still doesn’t sink that that she’s really leaving until the last night in the dorm. 

“It’s kinda sad this isn’t going to be _our_ room anymore,” Judy says. They've just finished packing up the last few clothing items in her closet, and she’s surveying the room with an expression of wistful, premature nostalgia. 

“If it helps,” Jen says. “I’m sure our room in Winslow next year will be pretty much identical.” 

Since Franklin is a freshmen dorm, they had to request a different building next year; Winslow will put them slightly closer to both the dance and art buildings. It will most likely also include Audrey and Matthew, who requested the same one along with their new roommates, both fellow students from the dance program that Jen doesn’t particularly want to start having breakfast or dinner with.

“Ooh, idea!” 

Jen looks up from the phone book she’d taken from the student lounge to look up pizza delivery for tonight. Judy’s stretched out on the floor, half of her body in the closet.

“Uh, are you staging a sit in?” Jen smirks. “Gonna just refuse to leave when campus security shows up at noon?”

“No, but it’s tempting.” Judy’s voice echoes in the empty closet. “I’m writing our names.” 

She suddenly sits up and backs out, smiling up at Jen and twirling a fine tipped Sharpie between her fingers. “Well, I wrote _my_ name. And the year. But you can adds yours. If it’s really small and in the corner of the closet, that’s barely vandalism, right?” 

Jen can’t help grinning down at her. “Did you mistake the wall for, like, a yearbook?” 

“C’mon,” Judy coaxes. “Imagine we come back for, like, our twenty year reunion in... _2019,_ and visit our _exact_ room, and our signatures are still here, just this tiny secret thing we did.” 

“You’re such a dork,” Jen informs her, then holds out her hand. “Gimme the pen.”

Smile blooming, Judy hands it over and gestures regally for Jen to step inside.

Jen has to stretch out on her stomach to even find the spot, in the corner, just above the floor boards, where Judy’s neat handwriting spells out **Judy Hale &** , the space for Jen left beside her own, with ’ **95-’96** cramped beneath them. 

Jen adds her name and stands up, taking her own quick, less showy moment to take in the room’s current state. 

The emptiness _is_ unsettling, with everything stripped from the walls and cleared from their closets and desks. Judy’s suitcases are piled by the door, waiting to be loaded into Hank’s car tomorrow, when he comes to pick them up and take Judy to the airport. Jen’s got a duffle bag with enough stuff for two nights; she’ll throw that in the car tomorrow along with her bedding and the television, left behind for these last couple nights. Even the minifridge has already moved to Jen’s parents basements – between its absence and their depleted meal plans, they’ve been living off vending machines and the closest bodega.

They step it up for their last night, though, ordering pizza before focusing on the business of clearing out their alcohol supply – enhanced by a few near empty bottles charitably donated by Audrey and Matthew before they left. They’d gone to Blockbuster on Monday afternoon, taking full advantage of a _rent three, get one free_ special, so the entertainment for the night is taken care of while they switch between mixers for vodka, whiskey, and rum, saving half a bottle of white wine for the end of the night, pairing it with a joint Judy forgot she had hidden in last semester’s Spanish workbook. 

It’s after two am when they put in _Reality Bites,_ the final video in their stack of rentals. Jen saw it in theaters when it came out, but she doesn’t remember hating Ethan Hawke’s character so much at the time. Greasy haired and pretentious, he reminds her a little of Ian – if Ian had been a shitty musician instead of a shitty artist. 

Jen keeps the observation to herself, but they’re not talking much by that point, anyway. They started the movie fresh off the dreamy mist of weed, draping calmly across all those final sips of alcohol. Judy’s the first to give in and lay down, pillowing her head in Jen’s lap before they’ve even passed the opening credits. It keeps Jen sitting up, albeit slumped back against the wall, for the rest of the movie. The cross of weed and alcohol always turns Jen extra tactile, and she loses her hands in the tangled rumple of Judy’s hair, splayed out across her legs while Jen’s fingers gently explore the soft waves with a cartographer's thoroughness. 

For the last hour of their viewing, Judy drifts in and out of sleep, giving over to it completely just before Ethan undeservedly ends up with Winona. Jen stays still while the credits roll; she remembers liking the Lisa Loeb song playing over top of them, but that’s not the real reason Jen’s reluctant to turn it off and give in to the end of the night.

With the last movie over and the last bottle emptied, there’s nothing to do but go to sleep. And then it will be morning, when Judy has to leave.

Jen thinks back to this time last year, the end of high school. She was surrounded by people high on emotion, saying goodbye after years of being _best friends_. Jen hadn’t bought into her own friends’ dramatics, and she’d spent the weeks surrounding graduation feeling disconnected from everyone around her, feeling like the only person leaving high school who couldn't see anything worth missing. 

Tonight isn’t even much of an ending - not compared to the ceremony and gravity of their graduation, tassels moved and hats thrown and most of Jen’s friends crying on the football field. There is an identical room waiting for Jen and Judy at the end of the summer, and they will get back classes and late nights and each other. 

Still, staring down the barrel of three months without her, Jen finally understands what her friends were pretending to feel last year, but their loss couldn't possibly measure up. Jen knew those shallow, wavering friendships, and she knew how easily they could slip in and out of each other’s lives. 

Judy, though. Judy is the undercurrent to Jen’s whole life here. She’s the heartbeat – warm and steady and _vital._ The thing you’re not supposed to live without. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tunes! 
> 
> Tango: Maureen - Rent Original Broadway Cast  
> Hate Myself for Loving You - Joan Jett & The Blackhearts  
> Roll to Me - Del Amitri  
> Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Tears for Fears  
> Never Tear Us Apart - INXS  
> You Were Meant For Me - Jewel  
> Stay - Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories*
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone for putting up with not only the length of our hiatuses and chapters, but the length of this slooooow fuckin' burn. We definitely didn't think freshman year would take this many chapters. As always, though, would love to hear what you think of this one, and appreciate your saintly patience for sticking with us!


End file.
